My Shinigami, My Hamburger
by Kaitsurinu
Summary: 2x1x2 Heero is invited to MTV's Fear and accidentally summonds the Angel of Death. There's only one problem. This lascivious Shinigami is mentally only a child and falls in love with him, bringing more chaos in Hell and on Earth than he could ever imagine
1. The Introduction of Godliness

My Shinigami, My Hamburger

  
By Kaitsurinu  
  
  
Chapter 1

The Introduction of Godliness   
  
Mary Anilin was nearly finished with her coffee by this time, and that was a feat in itself. Usually she was passed out in late-night exhaustion by now. Just how she still had a casting tape to go after 4 hours of steady work, was another. The young, mostly disillusioned MTV casting director ran her finger along the buttons on her remote by habit, barely even thinking. Her fingers had danced from eject, to play, to stop, to eject, and so on for countless times. And countless times she watched some young, raw-faced youngster preach to the camera, hoping to catch a piece of fame. And now, as the music-postered walls seemed to close in the darkness around her and the annoying ticking of the clock loudened, it was the last one. 

  
Hallelujah.

  
Black. Generic. Like all the others. Except this one was the troublemaker.

  
When the tape had been received in the massive bin of video mail for the music television station, the sorter had just moaned. The entire studio through that floor had heard him. Because, although the address was in quintessential English printing, the tape and the information along with it were written in quintessential Japanese. It had taken over an hour to track down the nearest translator in Times' Square, and it probably would have been better to just return it, but it had been a good day before that [and a bad week, casting wise] and the majority of the vote was to review it in hopes they would find the next reality star, who would later go on to a bachelor show or perhaps work on a farm with another brainless socialite. "Fear" had never had someone from a different country come on the supernatural investigation show before. It would be good variety, if his English was good.

  
Mary muttered to herself, picking up the tape and scrutinizing it under her desk lamp. Then she tapped her fingers along her desk and pulled the sheet with the translation over to read. Her green eyes danced behind her thin glasses perched on her nose and she shrugged. It was beyond her how a kid from Tokyo had gotten the address, but she really didn't care. After seeing the tape, she probably would never see him again. This was how she had come to meet most the world without really seeing them.

  
She popped it into the TV/VCR, which sat on her cluttered desk as well. With slumped shoulders, she limply pressed play with the faint hope that the kid spoke some, half-decent English.

  
The screen fizzed and crackled at first, but soon broke into high-quality videotape, something to be expected from Japan, and a young boy standing in front of the bustling lights of Tokyo. His dark, windswept hair, lighted by trendy caramel highlights on the sides of his head, clouded in his crystal blue eyes, which were framed by sharp eyebrows curving off his temples. He had the usual Asiatic small nose and delicate chin and neck, and his lips were formed in an emotionless pout that just drew her in. 'A little ball of sex,' she thought. 'Maybe I could hop a plane to Tokyo real quick…' 

  
She laughed to herself, being reminded that it was insanely late and her boyfriend would be at home, probably sitting awake with a fussing baby. Then suddenly quieted down as the tape fizzed and he started talking.

  
Luckily, in fluent English. Amazingly, he had no accent.

  
"Hello. My name is Heero Yuy, age 25, and I am currently unemployed, but I was previously enrolled in the army until the age of 20, when I was forced to leave on undisclosed reasons…"

  
Bingo. Mysterious, quiet kid. _Fear_ would scare some emotion into him.  
  


  
Heero Yuy never expected the American letter that morning, as he hiked the backpack on to his shoulder and went to the mailbox for a perfunctorily mail check. Not that he expected any letters, but it was in his military-influenced upbringing to be thorough. He had only ducked his hand into his mail slot for a second; drawing out a few junk letters, then noticed a stained one, which had obviously traveled a long way over obstacles and the misfortune of a wobbly coffee cup. He frowned and drew it up to look at. The letter was addressed him in plain English. And it was from MTV.  


  
  
Sweat beaded down the curve of his chin, landing in the lens of the camera staring up at him. The light flickered dangerously and the heat from it searing up at his neck this closely was getting unbearable. If that wasn't enough, the air around him in the bat-infested hall was as cold as ice. His war-sharpened senses screamed. His head swung toward the dark corridor trailing him, then back in the other direction. The camera captured the wary gleam in his crystal blue eyes as he lifted his head. His caramel bangs on his temples were slicked to his skin and stuck in his eye. The Japanese boy finally calmed his jumpy nerves and lifted the radio to his mouth breathlessly. 

  
"Gabrielle," he said sharply, "I made it to the hallway. Now what?"

  
"Take the brush out of the paint can you brought with you," she replied in a metallic voice, "and paint an inverted cross on the first door on the right to summon the Angel of Death."

  
Heero cursed in Japanese. He drew his lips in once to wet them, tasting salty sweat on them, and breathlessly closed his eyes. "Is that it?" he managed to breathe out, bringing his hand up to wipe away the streams of moisture running along his temples. It was damned taxing to be this anxious, while walking down pitch-black corridors oozing with the long-lingering smell of disease.

  
"Ooh, Baby Doll, you have to sit there for a while in radio silence," she said in a huffy voice. "Sorry, Heero. Sorry."

  
"Don't worry," he reassured. The ex-soldier could hear his drill sergeant's advice resurfacing and although he was still tensed and even his dull sixth sense was screaming whenever he turned, he felt more under control. "I never really talk that much anyway."

  
The girl chuckled quietly in response to that. "'Kay, baby doll, now go ahead and paint the cross."

  
"_Hai_." Heero felt pain from his tension bleed through his arm as he moved to pick up the brush. He never was the artistic type and with the heat from the light and heightened awareness of every sound, the upside down cross he painted was jagged. The black paint gleamed in the camera's light and Heero felt something heavy drop in his stomach, like a bowling ball. He began to pray and repeated softly that it felt so wrong in his tensed mind.

  
He hastily dropped the brush and it spit black paint across floor in completely random, sinister designs. It didn't matter, though. The cement under his feet had a mysterious hum of its own. "Gabrielle, I'm finished."

  
Radio feedback. "Heero, just hold tight. You must sit in total radio silence for two hours and attempt to contact the Angel of Death."

  
"Alright," Heero replied.

  
"You okay?" It was clear in her voice that Gabrielle was truly concerned about Heero. 

  
"Yeah," he replied halfheartedly, backing up to the other side of the hallway as another batch of silent, chocolate brown bats steamed out into some unknown place. "Nothing I can't handle."

  
"Right, babe. We'll have the hot cocoa ready for you when you come back, 'kay?"

"Sounds good," he breathed tiredly.

  
"Bye."

  
Silence. Sweet, rich silence. But at the same time, it was suffocating. Heero stood for a second with no movement except for his low, raspy breathing out of his parted lips, staring at the dripping cross on the door. Crystal blue eyes suddenly flashed an alarmed white and Heero could feel panic seeping back into his stonewalled heart. The slim foreigner eased his aching legs down so that he leaned against the opposite wall, then sat on the cold stone floor. He assured himself nothing would happen. A lot of paranoid shit had happened the past two nights, but Heero still remained a harsh skeptic about the paranormal. A few buildings made noises, a few balls rolled in the children room, his comrades had 'channeled' a few spirits, but so what. Maybe _Fear_ thought they could breathe some believing air into him, but he'd prove them wrong. He'd win his share of that five thousand dollars, hang around America for a few more weeks if he still felt like it, then head home to Tokyo and pay off his nagging rent.

  
He sat fine for the first 45 minutes, but slowly it was getting worse.

  
Breathing. It had grown eerily loud on the back of his neck, and Heero sucked in his at the same time as another breathed out. At first, his heart skyrocketed through his throat, but he closed his slanted blue eyes as though he were a kid under the covers and temporary calm claimed him again. Nothing was there. Nothing. Even look, Yuy, he thought. His heart although did not slow. Blood coursed like thunder through his brain and the once cool, collected darting of his eyes had grown into full-blown alert scans, delving into the dark... The trails of still wet black paint on the door now dripped down to the floor. Heero turned his head as his sixth sense bit hard.

  
A ghostly child, dripping white ghost blood, lifted her hand before him. Heero froze like a deer in the headlights. He could see her southern style white dress float around her tiny legs. Her innocent, china doll face was as smooth as glass and her tiny nose disappeared in her chalk complexion. But the homemade, paper doll she lifted up betrayed her emotionless face. Its smiling cloth face was mauled and dripping with an obvious red liquid, and it was alive. It slowly moved, by its own will, its hand up and reached for Heero.

  
He screamed.

  
But no one heard.

  
Heero bolted up from his uncomfortable recline against the wall, arching his back over as his rib cage ached with heavy breathing. His panicked whitish eyes pierced every innocent shadow, looking for that little ghost girl. She was nowhere to be seen. The black paint had stopped dripping to the floor, and had dried in a streaked fashion.

  
The Japanese youth mentally slapped himself. He'd dreamed it all up.

  
Heero dusted his lanky finger across his temples. His caramel-highlighted hair was dripping sweat like a wet dog in the summer. He frowned to himself and was glad no one could smell that his deodorant had succumbed to the nervous panic he was in. It wasn't much better than the coppery smell of blood that manifested the entire place. And of course, that mortal sense of death that still wandered this place.

  
"Stupid bastard," he muttered at himself. "Can't get worked up."

  
Suddenly, after another hour, sweet redemption. "Heero, your time's up. Come on back." Gabrielle audibly smiled.

  
"Thank _Kami_." He breathed. "Thank _Kami_ even more for not seeing any stupid Angel of Death..."

  
CraAAck...

  
Like all the B-grade horror movies he seen, the radio died in Heero's hand suddenly, spurting out a last desperate mechanical cry of death. It sparked and he instantly recoiled his hand back and let it drop. Along where the wiring had been on the back, lines of blood marked him. He'd lost all contact with the others and was lost in the dark, tuberculosis-colony house, filled with dead souls. It wouldn't have bothered him before, but the unnerving little girl in his dream felt like an omen... it was an omen... But the nature of that omen was a mystery, sinister or good. 

Probably not the latter. 

  
Heero's heart beat faster the instant the camera blinked out. He knew it by the little red light that had annoyingly blinked near the base of the light, which was currently off. Technical difficulty. That was to be expected once and a while. It'd been acting up ever since he'd stepped foot inside this damned house. The Japanese boy once again had to scrape the perspiration from his body, and stood in uncertainty, using his hand against the wall as a guide. He knew that it was his radio that had died, not Gabby's, so their was no way he could communicate. But, it was no big thing...He could do it. It had only been a decade since his army training. Nothing too bad could happen.

  
Suddenly, Heero felt an overwhelming icy wind blow him over and slam him against the door with an almost malevolent intent. It howled fiercely, turning death cold as it blew against his skin.

  
The wind swirled and conflicted with the heat of the confined building and it picked up debris and flung it around the room. The paint can that had sat patiently with him now buckled with a supernatural force, rocking back and forth until it finally slammed against the floor, spilling the paint. It lifted into the air and buckled against the walls as it whirled out of sight. The paintbrush impaled itself into the wall, causing plaster and dust to burst up into the icy convection whirl of wind. Pieces of glass whirred past Heero's head and slashed at Heero's exposed shoulder, since he was wearing his usual green tank top and he buried his head in his chest for protection.

  
"Okay, I take that back," he growled to himself.

  
The black paint from the inverted cross splattered suddenly, melting off the wood like boiling butter, all over Heero's hands which he used to shield the top of his head. Grunting as larger shards struck his body in a vicious whirl, Heero braved a look over his bloodied shoulder into the blackness. He could see the glints of light off the glass, as the camera, which had been dead until this very opportune moment, burst back to life. It blinded him for a second. As his eyes adjusted, the pit of his stomach filled with a cold black hole.

  
There was a body.

  
The wind died abruptly...and then _it_ moved.

  
Heero, although the camera was cramping, moved forward to investigate, although his sixth sense was screaming bloody hell. He put his hand down to help him stand. He was careful not to cut himself, but the white-blue of his eyes gleamed with too much curiosity to care. Blood streamed down his arm. The body, still too far away to see closely, was trailed by a cloud of dust sifting toward the floor, and a large gaping hole in the ceiling that extended stories up, letting slivers of moonlight in.

  
He numbly stood up and walked over. He staggered over, his awe stealing away his speech. As he stood over the thing, apparently a person, it rolled over groggily in its state of unconsciousness.

  
Silky black wings erupted from the creature's shoulder, catching each sliver of moonlight and stealing them for itself. The layers of glistening, raven-like feathers unfurled in a curling wave of ebony and splayed out at Heero's feet. The appendage fluttered lightly, as if in pain. More black silk followed as an arm unfurled out to Heero's feet like the wing, smooth and delicate, but with a certain element of innocent softness to it. His stunned white-blue eyes followed it up to lanky but still muscular shoulders, a flat, broad chest, thin, almost girlish waist, and long, trim legs. It was human… sort of.

  
And the face...

  
It had that same childish appeal, innocent and rounded as no sinister supernatural thing he'd ever seen. A cute, pert nose and marble-shaped closed eyes. American-looking definitely. Long, wild bangs of dark chestnut were cutting the sun-tinted complexion of its forehead. Even longer was the creature's chestnut hair, streaming all the way down to pool in its lap and untied in a river of beautiful hair. Parted lips, taking in quick, almost strained breaths. A short, full neck, much unlike Heero's long, skinny feminine one. 

  
Violet eyes. Deep violet eyes. Deep opened violet eyes.

  
The creature, the false human with the black silk wings, groaned in a low, baritone voice in pain as its blurry eyes cleared and focused on Heero in the dimness with a stunning fluidness that was definitely inhuman. Tiny slivers of light caught in those eyes that perfectly focused on him and Heero couldn't breathe. It was male… he thought. 

  
The silky braid poured off its shoulder like water and rested behind it as it sat up curiously. Wide purple eyes paralyzed Heero in place. It, or he, moved with amazing animation as if it was nothing at all, as if the air was too light and thin for its godly presence. At first, it made strange noises from the bottom of its throat, and he watched the bold apple in its throat juggle up and down with words that came out gurgled. It winced and gave a dismal look at its trouble speaking. It twisted up its face up at Heero and cleared its throat, sitting with its long legs tucked under it

  
"You...called?" it tried in a rough voice. A definitely male voice, but the hair and tone kept Heero confused about its gender, if it wasn't androgynous. It smiled up at him in almost embarrassment. It was a stunning white display of teeth that just struck something with in the disillusioned Japanese boy.

  
"Are you Shinigami?" he asked breathlessly.

  
A genuine smile lit up that childish face and it lifted its previously black wings around it. Again, Heero stood without a breath in his lungs. He stood watching the wingspan in slide through the darkness, highlighted by moonlight and the artificial light of his camera. He was actually seeing this, _and_ actually getting it on camera? It was beyond word. This... This was... an angel...

Of Death.

It lithely shook the stiffness from the gleaming waterfall of fluid black and blew a bang from its face with a happy laugh. It just laughed and continued to smile up at him, blinking warmly at him.

  
Heero instantly felt threatened, when the word Shinigami finally reached that cold pit in his stomach. Anyone would have been, anyone would have gone screaming from the actual God of Death that he was convinced now sat before him. Of course the omen had been bad; how could it not be! He felt a horrible pain in his stomach. It was a warning. The light fell of his camera suddenly and clattered loudly on the ground. The result was the same as smacking a frying pan in front of a rabbit.

  
Heero ran.

For his life.

  
He sprinted down the corridor, not caring if he forfeited himself for some measly money. Something didn't feel right. It never felt right to know he was in a room with the thing that called itself Death. Sudden pain flared in his knees as concrete scraped against his legs. He had stumbled when glancing back toward the sitting creature and it suddenly gave a look of pure confusion and hurt. Heero didn't care; he was going to save his ass first and hopefully the ghost thing would disappear and never bother him again. Never would hover over him with that overwhelming sense of death ever ever ever again. He scrambled to his feet and ran, his sixth sense going dull from screaming so much.

  
His legs ached with that warning pain, but Heero was stopped at the end of the hall. 

  
His head snapped back at the sound. Highlighted by the light rolling back and forth and illuminating the creature, he could see the thin lines of tears running down the Shinigami face, it's gaze never leaving Heero's face. Never turning dark or threatening, never even thinking of Death. Eyes afraid of being alone even. And sudden pitiful sobs racked its entire body; the summoned creature yelping quietly with each inhalation like an emotionally hurt child. 

  
"Oh man... don't cry," Heero muttered.

  
The Shinigami, as Heero had identified him now, twisted his lips as tears caught streaked down his face. Straining to hold the sobs back, it tried not to break, but it was no use. The light in his eyes turned quiet and hurt and he looked away. Then, his composure broke and the creature planted his face in his hands and his shoulders quaked around him. He was crying…? Could a God of Death actually cry?

  
Heero paused, opening his mouth. But he knew what he had to do while the thin Angel of Death sobbed to himself, slumping to the ground. There was only one thing.

  
  
Gabrielle had bitten her nails down to the quick by the time the knock on the heavy metal door came. April, who had nervously been playing with her piercing around her eyebrows, screamed and dashed to the door. Her long, black-painted fingernails scratched on the metal loudly as she hurriedly unlocked the door and flung it open. Thomas, Creed, and Antwain gathered around as the sweat-drenched Heero Yuy tentatively blinked his crystal blue eyes, loaded down with broken equipment. His naturally pouty, sharp lips were twisted in uncertainty. The slim boy gave a nervous look around the pale, worried faces and, with his arm curiously extended backwards, managed to speak through an unsteady voice.

  
"...I completed the dare."

  
He pulled the Shinigami into the light. It smiled.

  
"It's_ real_."


	2. The Shinigami

Chapter 2

The Shinigami

Heero was met with the many faces of untellable surprise, horror, disbelief, and even a wide-eyed fascination of his teammates gazing down at him, and the unanimous gasp he expected. Their eyes instantly left his face in favor that of the rather diminutive deity that Heero claimed he had in tow, it's hand wrapped around his own. Behind them it was dark, and when the God of Death stepped into the starchy, fluorescent light, all the shadows seemed to curl and slink away with a life of their own, dissipating almost. 

It left behind the warmly smiling young man that they saw now behind, who met each of their eyes fearlessly, with nothing but friendliness in his violet Grim Reaper eyes. He looked ageless, with youthful features and flawless smile, and it was mostly likely because he was. Despite the more than manifest presence that hung around him, he wasn't very physically imposing. He came only roughly to Heero's height and wore little more than the black silk robe slung around his waist. Like a human. And a very unnaturally pretty one.

He first appeared to only be a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed teenager with long unbound chestnut hair and unruly bangs around his cherub face, until the light struck the undeniable proof of his godliness. As the group of stunned men and women finally saw the midnight black wings arching from the base of each of shoulder blade, fear struck each of their hearts just as if he held a stained scythe above their throats, with all of Hell spewing up behind him. 

Death black feathers slid across the cold floor, down past his ankles, and floated through the air as lightly as breath behind the Shinigami as he was pulled into the light, hand still vice-gripped as tightly as a frightened child's around Heero's. The friendliness momentarily dropped for a skittish look of a startled child in a room of strangers. You could see the fear lingering in his eyes as he passed over each one, all generally gaping in shock, and the hurt that built up with each successive horrified expression. He gripped the lifeline even tighter, until Heero was sure that dim, damp sensation was blood tricking down his palm.

Gabrielle promptly fainted and slumped to the floor.

And that's when the chaos began.

"What the fuck is that?!" someone, easily either male or female, shrieked. All Heero could see of the safehouse was a frantic scramble of clothes, colors and faces, all scampering away from the door. The limp Gabrielle was fetched up by Creed and promptly dragged away. 

April instinctively clutched onto the nearest living thing, which was Thomas, and she staggered back with a very displeased expression marring her face, one that the Japanese man recognized as the intense fear of death natural to every human. The one that he'd felt when he first laid eyes on the Shinigami. She was the one shrieking, and when her footing was less than steady and her knees quaked out from beneath herself, she let out a terrified high-pitched yelp. 

"Is this your idea of a sick joke, huh, Yuy? It's not funny!" Thomas snapped in anger, though it thinly veiled his undeniable fear. He quickly steadied the frantic girl and went with her as the cast shrunk away as far as possible. The girls even went so far as to cower on the bottom bunk, crawling back into the shadow as if it were a security blanket that could shield them from one of Hell's own. They shrieked in volleys, and even if it was for good reason, it still irritated his ears. 

Heero tried to open his mouth and defend him and the innocent God of Death, but was stopped when the Shinigami quickly followed the step he took, cowering behind him like a toddler, and invoked another ripple of screams and yelps from the terrified group. It was insane, the Japanese man thought to himself. He sourly shut his lips and narrowed his eyes, feeling a pang of frustration building in the pit of his stomach. Yes, it was perfectly normal to fear the bringer of death appearing suddenly at your doorstep, but they were acting ridiculous. He'd overcome his fear the instant he'd seen the Shinigami cry, and surely he wasn't so dangerous-looking with his babyish-grins that men would flee screaming. It was getting a little ridiculous, and his temper was trying. Opening his mouth to snarl something ill tempered and incensed at them, a sudden sharp pain flamed through his hand. Quivering fingernails dug into flesh and vulnerable heat pressed against Heero's back, the Shinigami whimpering and sobbing as he innocently clung. 

"Get that thing out of here, Yuy! You crazy bastard!"

"Don't touch it!"

Heero growled, clamping his fist tighter around the Shinigami's hand as warm liquid tears began to drip down his shirt. "He's not dangerous!" the Japanese boy snapped, his Prussian eyes flashing defensive white. "I think he's just a baby, and he doesn't want to hurt anyone! He wouldn't!"

"What the fuck?! Liar!" Antwain screamed as deathly fear squeezed his chest. That ignited a whole new round of shrieking that stung in Heero's ears. 

"Leave us alone!" April sobbed. "I don't wanna die, so why don't you leave!"

"Go away!"

"Listen to me!" Heero snapped, as the plaintive cries of the Shinigami worsened and the burning frustration in his chest flared. "He's not going to hurt you. Now, stop it, you're scaring _him_!"

Across the terror-conflicted room, the horrified white-rimmed eyes stared at the diminutive Japanese man fearlessly entwining fingers with the black-winged Grim Reaper himself, and the horribly cross expression growing across his exotic features. And it stabbed fresh, bleeding fear through them. April, whom had tears streaking down her face, cutting the nervous sweat sheen, suddenly stifled a gasping sob and screeched out, "It's got him! It's got Heero! That devil, he's done something to him!"

"What the hell are you all talking about!" Heero screamed back to raise his voice over the deafening dim of Death-fearing noises of panic. His brow furrowed dangerously, darkening flaming eyes. "Can't you understand what I'm saying? He's not—"

Suddenly, the blood dripping from his hand ceased, and the hot, localized pain from the Shinigami's grip vanished. Heero flinched and nervously flickered his gaze over his shoulder where ungodly locks of glimmering chestnut were scattered, a warmth pressed miserably against him. Two inhuman violet eyes met his, lit brightly with fear. In an instant, renewed trails of hot tears arched down Heero's shoulder, burning like acid through the fabric of his shirt, and a choked wail burst from the Shinigami's lips. 

Time froze as the black silk of the Shinigami's wings erupted into a torrent of black shadow that engulfed everything in its violent path. Chairs careened through the air, propelled by a lash of creeping darkness; it smothered the human screams of terror into a distant, horrible whisper beneath the lamination of shadow. Heero gasped and sensual warmth captured him by the waist, and drew him relentlessly into the shadows. There was one last little whine from the creature's throat, his face buried against his shoulder like a lost child. Along with the colors and faces of reality, Heero's senses began to fade into numbness. Darkness consumed them.

The next thing Heero knew was the hungering pressure of lips capturing his own and the warmth of arms wrapping possessively and urgently around his neck. Precise thighs curled around his own and smoothly knocked him off his knees and pinned him into a pool of what felt like silk and cashmere. Instant heat sparked in his veins, long, bewitching fingers clawing through his thick, disheveled dark hair, sweet-tasting lips ravishing his own. He first moaned, then half-yelped in surprised, muffled by face-to-face seduction. The candy lips simply smirked against his and resumed. Darkness still clutched him, robbing him of vision, but supplying him with a very forward, very male humanoid thing compelling itself to him. Cool, fluttering silk curiously teased his skin and brushed his nose almost playfully. Feathers…—the Shinigami!

Heero, blushing a furious red, snapped his eyes open. The illusion of black around him evaporated and sudden, abrupt white light seered his eyes. His icy fingers clamped onto the nearest solid warmth, the smooth shoulder of the god, and threw it away from him. The relentless Shinigami was ripped away with a gasp and those unearthly violet eyes glowered disappointedly at him, pouting swollen pink lips. The bare torso of the Shinigami pressed insistently upon his own, warm and intoxicating. The grim reaper's sleek dark robes seemingly flowed off like water off glass until they disappeared. 

The fierce objections were swallowed by the playful lips of the Shinigami, silencing him with the divine taste of candy and cinnamon in his mouth. He created it especially for the human he had pinned down, the one who seemed picky and still twisted beneath him in distress, not arousal. Twice, he grabbed his shoulder and tried to shove him away, gasping as he pulled their mouths apart, but the Shinigami smiled, licked his lips, and overpowered him each time. Even though the pretty human had already shaken off his illusion, the Angel of Death still wanted to play. Licking his lips, he grinned down at the blue-eyed human. He clamped down each wrist and left a slow, agonizing trail of kisses down his exposed torso until his lips tasted the metal of his belt buckle. The Shinigami delighted in the way the human still tried to thrash beneath his ministrations and giggled, running his fingers over Heero's stomach. 

Somehow, Heero couldn't scratch up even the semblance of a voice. It wasn't raspy or dry, it simply didn't seem to form words anymore. As if his vocal cords had numbed and been surgically removed. He could only moan in protest and amuse the deity even more. 

The Shinigami smiled seductively and began to paw at the leather belt strung through Heero's jeans, intent on more. Instinctively, the Japanese man squirmed, and he received only a tighter, almost bone-crushing grip on his arm, which seemed to numb his other arm and left the deity's arm free to philander as it would. Heero closed his eyes in defeat, wondering how the hell he'd gotten to this situation in the first place, but there was only a gaping void in his memory from the time in the safehouse to the present. He waited for the metallic snap of his belt buckle unhitching, but it didn't come.

The Shinigami frowned massively. All the seduction melted out of his ungodly violet eyes and confused frustration smoldered darkly in its place. For a few seconds, the deity straddled Heero, simply staring down at his belt with a glowering tone. With his long silk hair spilling over his shoulder and black wings tucked unhappily against his back, the Shinigami clawed at the belt buckle. He tugged at the sides, rattled it impatiently back and forth, even tried gnawing at the leather belt. 

Heero stopped thrashing and looked up wordlessly as the cheap belt he'd purchased upon arriving in America for five dollars continued to completely baffle the Angel of Death. 

Finally, the beautiful deity's frown soured and he growled lowly. He raised his fist and pounded it once in frustration on the belt, and, unfortunately, on Heero's groin, too. 

Stars. Tiny glowing flecks. Lots of little stars spun in the edges of Heero's vision and he was vaguely aware of expelling all the air from his lungs and dimly thinking that gods should really know their own strengths. The sensation was the same as if an aluminum bat had mis-swung and completely missed the baseball, falling on him instead. Instantly, his vision went black and the warmth spread across him lifted anxiously. In that tentative articulation, he faintly heard the apologetic tone of "Sorry! Sorry!" on loop as if it were the only thing he knew how to speak with the occasional, "_Daijoubu ka_?" in between. A warm hand touched his cheek, stroking the hair from his face, and Heero grunted and pushed it away.

"Stop it!" the Japanese man rasped shakily, realizing his voice had returned. "And get the hell off me!" 

Very quickly, the Shinigami scampered away and dejectedly crouched a few feet, his fiercely concerned and apologetic eyes glued to Heero's face. Proverbial tail tucked between his legs. The gleaming forerunners of tears began to form in his eyes, witnessing the human groan and double up tiredly. Eventually, the Shinigami crept silently up to the human, sitting in the red wheelbarrow in which he'd created the illusion of a silk and cashmere bed. The broad wings of black silk folded humbly against his back, sliding across the dusty cement floor, and his eyes gleamed dimly in the early morning sunlight. Cautiously, he tucked a tress of hair behind his ear and reached out for Heero's head, which currently was pressed against his knees. For a moment, he was allowed to stroke the human's disheveled caramel and brown hair. Then Heero tensed up and yelled, "Don't touch me!" sending the deity scampering back again. 

The Shinigami keened out a pathetic whimper as he scrambled back. His wings flapped once in nervousness and struck a garden hoe and shovel propped against the wooden walls, knocking them over and frightening him even more. Like a sparrow thrashing against the bars of a birdcage, the deity screeched in fear as the gardening tools clattered loudly to the cement and his wings instinctively thrust open in order to defend himself, knocking more down. 

Finally, his back struck the wall with considerable force and his wings knocked everything in the cramped seven-foot width between walls. The force rattled up through the wooden wall and a faint metallic clash sounded above his head, instants before an empty paint can crash-landed on the naked deity's head. The Shinigami yelped and clawed helplessly at the metal can. Eventually, he adapted to it and realized to curl his fingers around the edges, popping the rim off his forehead and tossing it to the floor. 

Heero sat up gingerly, and his face twisted as he realized that he was sitting in a rusting wheelbarrow with a pile of rather scratchy hay beneath him. He was in a storage shed at the moment, without even a inkling of how in hell he'd gotten there. Speaking of Hell, he focused on the Shinigami again, who ashamedly looked at him, his black robes spilled out over his lap and kneading between his fingers. Like a child, his eyes were filling quickly with tears and he bit his lip as Heero stared at him.

"What are you anyway?" the Japanese man asked.

The Shinigami's eyes froze in fright. The same startled look bore upon a jittery, guilt-ridden student who finds his teacher's ruler crashing down on his desk in accusation. 

"Tell me the truth. What the hell are you?" There was a trace of growl in his throat of pure defense and the creeping fingers of fear that waited around his heart. Heero was growing anxious and skeptical of his former convictions that "the Shinigami" was somehow just a prank or something stupid like that, played on him for the sake of drama. But his cynicism was paling quickly. Bright, inhumanly colored eyes finally met his, filled nervously with innocence. Pale pink lips twitched anxiously for words and could discover none, and after unsuccessfully trying to speak, the Shinigami closed his mouth and stared apologetically. 

"No, don't just stare at me like that," Heero growled, half-snappishly. A seed of fear was growing in his chest and sprouting quickly and he iced over before it could take root. "Stop that and just tell me what the fuck you are! Stop playing around, get out of that ridiculous, and tell me what the hell you want with me, because I know you're not any Angel of Death. You can't fool me with something so—"

His secretly terrified tirade was interrupted by a loud, choked sob. Heero stopped, realizing that the Shinigami had disappeared before his eyes and left an ethereal haze drifting close to the floor. 

In confusion, he shifted his head around. Distrusting his eyes, a grimace crossed his eyes, tinged with a bitter relief that wasn't too strange upon his normally cold expressions. He assumed that he'd frightened off the weak Shinigami and leaned forward to pull himself from his ridiculous seat in the wheelbarrow. That relief should have instantly swept through him, as he prepared to find the nearest airport and return to his apartment, leaving all this strange happening behind him, but a fist landed on his head at that moment.

"You fuck up. What the hell did you do now?" A level female voice growled at him. 

Heero turned, and faced the image of a woman frowning at him. The thing was that she was draped in holy white clothes, glowing white robes, and—this day kept getting better and better—white wings. Her piercing aqua-blue eyes seemingly gnashed their teeth at him through the long tresses of blonde hair and dramatic red eyeshadow.

"You're in such trouble, little boy. I'm talking fire and brimstone, here, Heero Yuy."


	3. The Amendment Called Forever

Chapter 3

The Amendment Called Forever

Heero waited a second before politely growling, "Who the hell are you?" He wasn't in the habit of welcoming any more deities with troublesome wings, his eyes blatantly warned the ethereal blonde.

"Who the hell am I?" The winged woman mocked. Her aqua-blue were as sharp as blades in their near-glowing state, rimmed in makeup the color of blood. Even the beautiful white wings arching out of her shoulder blades stiffened into the stance of a bird of prey, waiting to strike such unsuspecting prey as the young man standing in front of the wheelbarrow.

"How dare you ask such questions of me! Insolent thing! Unchristian soul!" She snarled, even, before twitching her mouth slightly. "There!"

Heero paused suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at this insane woman. She had simply yelled at him and now bore the smug look of a winner. The purest white robes draped on her rustled slightly in a wind that didn't exist in side the storage shed, then suddenly burst out to all sides as if a massive gust began to whirl in the air. Heero was ready to brush past her, never mind how the hell she had gotten there or just why she had wings were they very well didn't belong, when that wind suddenly made itself felt to him. It punched him squarely in the chest and he fell painfully back into the wheelbarrow, bruising his back.

"Shit!" he hissed beneath his breath, grabbing the sides of the wheelbarrow and gingerly lifting himself up.

A second later, the winged woman was standing over him, glaring down at him. It was a vicious look that offset her angelic but disgruntled looks. "I know who the hell you are, Heero Yuy, and that's all that matters," she snapped curtly. He was yanked to his feet by his collar and the ethereal white hand of this strange woman. "Well, aside from the fact that you've just royally screwed yourself over, that is!"

Heero roughly grabbed her wrist and tried to dislodge it from the neck of his shirt. The first time he managed to move it, but apparently only because of his element of surprise. A second later the winged woman surged back with an impossible strength—he couldn't move her arm. It was as fixed as molded steel. He scowled deeply and tried to keep the fear bubbling in him from overpowering him. "I could have you sued for assault. I suggest you let me go now before anything has to be done about it."

Instead of being warned, the woman only smirked. "Oh, think you're so smart, First son of Yumi Yuy and Odin Lowe?"

Heero stopped, his eyes slighted in fear.

Easily, she ripped his arm from her wrist by the same odd wind and he cringed away from her. The smug look on her face grew as he cradled his hand against his chest. A painful tingling sensation, much like the one when a muscle falls asleep, shot up the length of his arm and he stepped back from her.

"What the hell did you do to me?" he asked calmly, though he was anything but deep in the back of his mind.

However, the winged woman paid no attention to his question. "You could sue me, Heero Yuy, but I assure you that I would win in the long run when I condemned you to Hell for what you've done with the Thirteenth Son. I am a god, whether you're mature enough to admit it to yourself and quit pissing in your pants. There is no way you could win a battle against me, so don't even think of threatening me!" Her voice split the air sharply, causing the walls of the shed to quiver and dust to fall from the ceiling.

She smirked quietly and closed her eyes as she went about dusting off her robes and settling them down until they hung static over her. Without even moving her wings, she levitated back in the air and settled on an invisible throne of sorts, sitting regally in it.

"Now, back to the business of your fuck-up," the obvious deity quipped sweetly, folding her hands in her lap.

"Wait one minute," Heero growled. He winced as he finally regained use of his arm and let it fall to his side, while the other raised in accusation. "Tell me who you are, or I'll threaten you all you like and make you miserable until you can finally cast me into the pits of Hell'."

She frowned. "Eww, picky, aren't we?" When his glare didn't relent, she let out her own displeased look. "Fine, if that's what you want." Her mouth twitched again.

Suddenly, Heero found himself completely surrounded by a spread of marshmallow fields, the shed disappearing in favor of a blue and cotton-candy pink sky dotted with winged cherubs. Shocked, he managed to stifle his gasp as gravity abandoned him and he was lifted from the ground, as it he knew it. He was floating helplessly. His disheveled brown hair with the vagary caramel highlights hung in the air and his white dress shirt was loose around his shoulders. A good foot separated the soles of his shoes from the soft, spongy ground. Just as suddenly as he'd been lifted from the ground, he was dropped.

His yell of surprise was cut short as he bounced. Yes, bounced, after he landed upon a rather soft and pliable red heart floating in the air as well. It'd scooted beneath him and rolled onto the flat side, allowing him more room. He scrambled as it began to tilt, clawing at the unearthly fabric and flopping down onto it as it finally quit moving. Panting, Heero glanced over his shoulder with half-lidded eyes.

A naked cherub with the face of a middle-aged man and generous stubble was drifting by, a crooked cigarette perched on his lip. "What?" he groused, scratching himself quite rudely.

Heero spooked and let out a yelp as he clamored clumsily to the other side of the heart. He could barely hear the deity amused laughter above the throbbing thunder in his own chest that was his heart.

"My, how your tune changes!"

Heero whipped his head around and glared at her, even though he was clinging to the heart pillow tightly. Trying his best to be intimidating only served to amuse her even more.

"What? Still clueless?" she giggled, pressing her palm against the side of her face. Her elbow seemingly rested on an invisible armrest and her long nails glittered in the golden light of this strange limbo. "If you know the answer, go ahead and answer, good student." She sniggered.

With a sour look, Heero clamored up into a sitting position. "Guess what?

"Who I am," the deity said. She leaned forward on her throne, and her wings ruffled complacently. The white feather that dislodged floated in the air only moments before a swarm of tiny pink popcorn-kernel creatures gobbled it off and sped off, giggling insanely. Heero paused, watching the strange animals whisk away, then looked back to the winged woman's face, smug beyond her bright red eyeshadow.

"Come on, Heero Yuy! It's not that hard," she teased. Her anger turned to natty ridicule when she had the upper hand, in this world, this natural land of hers. "I'm Aphrodite!"

First, he'd begun this day on a ridiculous game show competing for money and a way just to leave Japan for a few days and seemingly escape all that he erred behind, and by the end of the day, had found himself in far more ridiculous territory. A black-winged beauty and terror of a God of Death had fallen through the roof and begun sobbing like a child. He'd seen shadow fill the room from this Shinigami and engulf everything in it's path and then—then he'd felt the Shinigami himself, coaxing the sex out of him and then fleeing in tears when he'd been rejected. And now, the cherry on top. He'd met another deity and this one was smart and manipulative in all the wrong measures. Hopefully she wouldn't be throwing him down into a wheelbarrow full of straw disguised as cashmere and velvet as well.

"You're kidding," he deadpanned.

"Well, you can call me Iria. I've grown tired of such a long and antiquated name. Iria's much prettier, don't you think?"

Heero snorted. "Right."

"You don't believe me?" The tone was smug. "Just look around you."

The Japanese youth narrowed his dark blue eyes, knowing he'd been bettered. "Alright, if you are, then what do you want with me?"

Suddenly, the fluffy white landscape of rolling hills of sugary fluff and the pink and blue and violet sky melted back into the musty wooden rafters of the storage shed. The large heart supporting Heero popped cutely and he fell back into the straw in the wheelbarrow. He stood up, indignant to be dropped in there for—what? The fourth time?—and dusted himself off.

Iria appeared before him out of nothing, no surprise there, and ceremoniously unrolled the parchment she clenched in her hands. Closing her eyes, she simply handed it to him without another word. Heero snatched it away unhappily and began to read it.

Emblazoned across the top in a swirling gold cursive were the words: EMENDATIO CLUEO IN AETERNUM. Below, the expanse of blotchy gold and brown paper was strangely empty of any other text besides the title.

After awkwardly reading the words to himself, Heero scowled as he lowered the heavy, musty parchment reeking of centuries worth of library storage. It seemed almost to hum, though, with a strange, steady life in his hands, slowly numbing them. Distrustingly, he asked, "So? What is it?"

The white-robed deity of love smirked at him. "The Amendment Called Forever. Latin script is so beautiful, don't you think?"

Heero stared at her flatly. "And what does that mean, exactly?" The fingers wrapped around the heavy rolls of parchment at the top and bottom began to twitch as the steady humming increased.

Iria's gleaming aqua-blue eyes delighted suddenly, lighting up over a bright smile. It wasn't smug, just very pleased in an almost sinister way. While her robes floated mystically behind her as she moved, the Goddess of Love gently took up the heavy parchment and unrolled it again for him to behold, this time to reveal lines and lines of delicately written text. "Why, Heero Yuy, it's your marriage certificate, if I do believe correctly."

Heero blinked once. "What."

Her smile widened shamelessly and she began pointing to specific words in the text. "Written here." As she pointed to his name dashed out in delicate script, it glowed a silvery tone for an instant. "This legally bonds you, in Heaven, Purgatory and Hell's eyes alike, to the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami for all eternity or until death do you part. Well, the 'till death do you part' isn't really in there, but I am rather fond of what mortals say to each other. It's really romantic."

Heero silent gap soon snapped into an angry frown as he snatched the parchment angrily away from the deity and instantly began reading it. Iria, unruffled, simply purred as she smiled and folded her arms. A few moments later a low growl could be from the blue-eyed Japanese youth. "It's all in Latin, how am I supposed to read this?" he asked calmly, though he was slowly beginning to lose control of his sober state.

"If you don't believe me," Iria drawled, "Go ask Gakka-o. He's the one who signed it for me."

A level glare matched her amused expression blow for blow. "The Japanese God of Marriage," he said with high-skepticism in his brow.

The winged woman didn't respond verbally; she instead found much more satisfaction in simply reaching down in her ethereal, glowing state and taking up Heero's wrist in her hand. At first, he flinched away from the touch then finally seemed to settle when he realized that he really couldn't object to a goddess who'd proved her self as divine and let her do as she pleased. Heero realized dreadfully that if Iria was Aphrodite, she could make him fall in love with whomever she wanted—perhaps an engorged cow—and didn't object. She lifted up his hand and he could now see the red string tied tightly around his pinkie finger and extending off into the direction that the Shinigami had disappeared. [1]

Heero frowned. "That doesn't prove anything."

Iria's blue eyes flared dangerously, making her red eyeshadow seem like blood. "You fen-sucked codpiece! All you mortals always have to have it spelled out to you, don't you? You just don't get anything!" The Goddess of Love threw her arms out in exasperation. She spun and glared unhappily at the wall and the rusted rake and broken hose hung from metal pegs.

She frowned in a twitch and once again her witchery sprung forth. A custard-colored pair of tiny wings, cartoonist and unreal, appeared through the wall and hovered a few inches off the dirt floor. Heero shifted suspiciously to look over Iria's shoulder and watched as the wing imp folded and twisted suddenly, contorting into the vague shape of a winged babe. It was curled into the fetal position and the wings, still the color of the imp itself, turned black, like whipped cream baking in the oven. The infant unfolded and looked curiously over its shoulders, the same expression it had bore today. It's eyes were bright violet over a wide one-toothed smile. The Shinigami. The hologram flickered slightly as the infant God of Death wagged a black and stubby forked devil's tail.

"The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami, that same Shinigami that you spooked away," Iria said suddenly, startling Heero from a quiet reverie of the violet-eyed babe. Her tone lost its playful ridicule and strong edge, becoming toneless and textbook almost. It became warmed, though, when she continued to say that he was her son.

"Father Shinigami is an ageless creature as you know him, yes, the God of Death, the Angel of Death, all that. But what most mortals don't know is that Shinigami reaches an age where he's no longer fit to bring souls to the other side. This happens every few, oh, couple millennia or so, I forget the time sometimes—and he bears a son."

"Your son?"

Iria glanced momentarily over her shoulder at him, restraining a glowing smile. "Well, not technically, but yes, I raised him like my son. Shinigami aren't allowed to have human qualities, so they are created out of things. For Shini, we used the darkness of the Father's eyes and a feather from me, so I guess he technically is half of me." She looked again down at the hologram. It's face lit up and the Shinigami babe crawled happily but clumsily after a digital butterfly drifting through the frame. She sighed quietly. "Shini was always so beautiful. So different from everything around him."

Heero quietly watched the hologram, suddenly unable to tear his eye away from it. It was a silent, vibrant story in digital that unfolded before him, spinning the tale of the Shinigami's life. Beside his rather human appearance, a dark shadow moved beside him and half-startled the young Japanese man. He started back at the sight of the creature sitting beside the bouncing Shinigami, one that was black and sinister with its pure dark blue eyes without pupils. It's skin was glistening and black, almost as if it had scales. Even with the black wings identical to the Shinigami, it still resembled something from the black lagoon. It had hands, arms and a humanoid torso, but its lower half began to bunch together like a dragon and it curved down into clawed feet. Jet black hair draped down around its waist.

"That, Heero Yuy, is what a real Shinigami looks like, so be glad I set you up with the handsome one." Iria snorted. "Oh, I really could have screwed you over there."

The image of the soulless-looking thing sitting beside such a quaint, human-like baby sent tiny electric waves teasing down his spine. It was a true God of Death, and even the image of it seemed to invoke a fear for the unknown and a concern for the perservation of his life. Heero thought about it for a second then glanced back over to the genial face of the Shinigami, smiling unseeingly at him. He stepped up beside Iria to get a better view of what he was married to—No, he was not married to anyone without at least consent to turn down!

He shook it off and looked down. A black silk robe had just been dropped on the human-faced Shinigami as Iria smiled and laughed to herself.

The Japanese man looked solemn as he watched. "Why is he so different?"

"He was born that way," Iria said plainly. "No one knows why. I've had sons and daughters from my feathers with all sorts of gnarly demons, and none have ever turned out like he has." The Goddess of Love shrugged casually, folding her arms and her silken white robes rustled as they moved together. "I didn't have any problem with it, but everyone else did. Shini was the most harmless thing in Hell, but because of what he could become, they forbid him from it."

Heero's dark blue eyes bore into the side of her face. She had his full and indivisible interest, and that was very rare nowadays. He silently waited for her to continue as the Shinigami romped alone, dashing after the digital butterfly in his cumbersome, oversized robes.

"Shini isn't at all normal. He's almost as human looking as anyone you might see on the street. He had wings and a forked tail, but that was all that he had in common with his twelve brothers and sisters.

"There's the matter of his body, first of all. It's all human. Nothing remotely characteristic of Shinigami. He had two human legs instead of hindquarters. He couldn't climb in the fires of Hell a lot of the time because he had those soft, stubby feet instead of claws to grip into the Boiling Stones or even the Hot Coals, and he would come home sobbing and burnt and scraped all the time. In fact, his skin was continually burning until he was at least six decades old. Its white and soft—not a hint of scales.

"His eyes are beautiful, like a little girl's, and they have pupils. Delicate, too. They seared when he first saw Earth light and he was recuperating for the next ten years. Breakable bones, a lowered threshold of pain, and the most dangerous of all—emotions."

Iria frowned severely to herself. It was the displeased scowl of a woman who'd seen too much, watched too many suffer to ever completely lose it. A scorned mother who was constantly tending her son's wounds from ignorant thugs.

The hologram shifted again. Blood red flames licked the air while Shini giggled and raced through the fire, his dark robes reflecting the searing fires of sin. A second later, there were an assortment of demons and older Shinigami children on top of him, tormenting him. Shini's mouth opened in a scream, but eerily, nothing could be heard.

"Shinigami never seen emotions until Shini. Sure, the children could be called playful, but all they are really doing is sharpening their predatory skills that they need to wrangle the feisty spirits to their appointed place. Shini honestly wanted to play. He has the mind of a small human child; he cries, he's curious, he learns, he laughs, and he gets upset when you try to lay him down for a nap for a year or two." Iria's fair face was still marred with anger when she turned to Heero. "The only one who didn't was hurt him was Satan, and that was because he was a fallen angel and he and Shini became playmates."

"Satan," Heero repeated. There was no skepticism in his voice. He could believe that, as ridiculous it was to imagine the Monarch of Hell speeding around as a black-winged child tried to tag him.

"Yeah," the Goddess of Love nodded humorlessly. " Father Shinigami banned Shini from Hell shortly after he reached his millennium birthday. He said it was for his own good and well-being, but I know the real reason."

"...Well, what?" he asked, unexpectedly breathless.

Aqua blue eyes looked pointedly at him, narrowed. "Shini could take over the seat of Hell any day now. He has more power lurking in him than all the Hades and Satan and fallen angels combined, he just can't release it. He is trapped until it does so, in the mind and heart of a child. The day he hits his demonic pubescence and gains all his Deathly powers, he could overwhelm the throne and rule Hell quicker than it takes you to zip your fly walking out of the bathroom, Heero Yuy. And he would stay there for a long, long time.

"Hades is afraid of losing to him. There's no telling what he could rage on Heaven, either. It wouldn't be pretty."

Heero stood back a ways from the goddess half-floating before him, and glanced down once again at the hologram. It presented, in a malicious black glow, the image of the Shinigami diving his fingers through the forehead of a pallid Hades and knocking back the heavy stone throne before the entire image was engulfed in flame. The imp shortly appeared after that and the hologram disappeared. He considered it for a moment, before straightening out in the goddess's gaze and hardening his face. "And why would I happen to be married to him?"

Iria smiled. "Because Shini needs love, and as his mother, when I cannot provide, I will find someone who will. Besides, we can't very well have an Angel of Death just scampering around the Earth with an over-proportional libido, can we?"

A frustrated blush came to his face over the frown. "About that—"

"Oh, don't worry. He's just my little aphrodisiac." Iria waved it off with a smug smirk. "What would you expect, when his mother is Aphrodite herself?"

"I didn't ask for him," Heero retorted shortly. It was easy to see that the issue of being half-seduced had hit a sensitive nerve in him and with his anger renewed, he turned to leave. Iria's smile could be felt through the air as she simply let him walk. She didn't have the need to physically reach out and grab him.

"Oh, but you did."

Heero whirled his head around. "When?"

Iria sighed dramatically and widened her eyes at him in a gesture of Duh!'

"You summoned an Angel of Death, I gave him to you."

"Did I ever ask for his hand in marriage?" The Japanese boy growled.

"It doesn't work that way, Heero Yuy. Don't think you spun the wheel of Aphrodite and got lucky—I've been searching for a place for Shini for years before you were even in your father's sack." She noticed how defensive those pooling blue depths got at the casual slang at his father's expense. "I've been watching you for some time now, and I know for a fact that if you were to just loosen whatever metal object's shoved up your ass, you'd be perfect for my son!"

He glared impassively, his blue eyes liquid disagreement. "Bullshit."

She held up the Amendment Called Forever and a few lines, emblazoned in scarlet, glowed brightly as she poked at them suggestively.

"When you went back to Shini, you legally accepted the proposal and you were then bound to him by all circles of Heaven and Hell! You even brought him to meet the parents, in a sense, and then Shini believed that it was his wedding night and you shattered his heart by throwing him out. It doesn't matter whether your head over heels for him or not—I don't even care if you're the straightest Republican of them all. The Thirteenth Son is your husband, Mr. Heero Yuy. How else do you explain that little red string on your finger?" She leered and once again snatched up his wrist so the smooth crimson string glinted in the light. "Is it from your pen pal?"

Heero's wrist was jerked violently from the deity's ethereal grip. Pure fire was driven in his eyes, and he scowled mercilessly at her.

Now Iria could see where he got the authority complex.

"Well," she cooed calmly, "none of that matters now, anyway."

Heero, rubbing his wrist suspiciously, stopped glaring for a second, surprised by his words. As he looked up to her, the wing imp buzzed up to her shoulder and buried in her hair like a puppy returning to a warm bed. She grinned.

"You've got a husband to find, darling, and I'd recommend doing it soon. When the sun goes down, Shini gets scared, and you wouldn't like that. You saw what he did the last time he got spooked." Her wicked grin was complete upon the daze crossing the Japanese man's face. "See you later, son-in-law." With that, she shoved Heero forcefully and he flew threw the walls of the storage shed—his unwitting newlywed suite—like a ripple on a pond and disappeared on the other side. Iria smiled to herself complacently, until the imp hiding beneath her long lengths of blonde hair buzzed and handed her a tiny pink object, roughly the size of the fabled Queen Mab.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Iria called out, taking up the valentine pink cellphone. "Give me a ring when you find him!"

The Goddess of Love wound up and tossed it through the wall as well, and the entire front of the storage shed rippled like the reflection on water. She smiled and giggled madly before disappearing in a sugary _pop_!

[1] It's a well-known part of Japanese Myth. Gakka-o joins husbands and wives together by red strings, or in this case, between god and husband.


	4. The Ripple Effect

Chapter 4

The Ripple Effect

Heero landed on the ground with three things; his nose was ground into the rain-soaked dirt, a tiny pink cellphone followed seconds later and squarely whacked him in the head, and the deepest frown the world had ever been graced to witness. The Japanese man sat up stiffly and glared at the ramshackle little shed with its chipped paint and half-decayed, sagging wooden boards. He wiped the mud off his nose unhappily with the back of his wrist and staggered to his feet and continued that way toward the shed until he reached the door. With a shake of his wrist and the clattering of a wretched but steadfast, he realized it was locked and growled at the inconvenience.

The shabby storage building didn't stand a chance. He wound up without the slightest display of effort and kicked in the door, eager to track down the deviant who had 'married' him. Dust flew as the slab of wood hit the ground with an angry force and Heero called out impatiently, "Iria!" It took a few seconds after stepping inside to realize that it was empty of any demigod. She'd escaped out from beneath his nose so easily, like it should be for a deity, unfortunately.

"Damn it," Heero mumbled to himself. The Japanese man surveyed the room carefully, looking suspiciously at all the tools downed by the Shinigami's wings as if they were laughing at him. The dust finally settled and when he snorted unhappily, it flew off from Heero's shoulder.

"Damn it all," he whispered again when he turned and stepped back outside and walked carelessly on the downed door. "This is all so ridiculous. I shouldn't even have come to America in the first place if all of this was going to happen."

He noticed rather quickly that he was barely a mile from the safehouse where he'd last seen any real human life other than himself. Across the sky and the dark treetops he could see the traces of buildings and the distant murmur of car engines purring as they moved slowly on the gravel road, off in the distance. Heero's frown deepened. He remembered vaguely hearing a dilapidated storage shed that had once been on the site of the haunted home, but the foliage had overtaken it and hidden it off grounds. So, the Shinigami had taken him to the nearest secluded spot and preceded to—oh, whatever, he thought abruptly. He knew what had happened.

With an endless string of curses and unhappy mutterings on loop beneath his breath, he stalked back out to the dirt where he'd fallen. He put his hands in his pocket and stopped. The minute, shining pink speck in the mud caught his eye, and he curled back a lip instinctually before picking it off and knocking the dirt off it.

To the average person—one who hadn't just been hitched to an Angel of Death—it would have been the average girlish cellphone, a glittery metallic shade of rose with cute red and white hearts painted on it. However, Heero knew better, and he recognized the brand name _Hermes _emblazoned in cute, stubby dark pink lettering as more than just a random name. It was so minute that when he closed his palm, it completely disappeared in his hand.

Flipping it open, he saw that the buttons probably only could be punched with the help of a pinhead. The screen jolted to life very unexpectedly a second later and glowed a vibrant gold color, like the image of jewelry reflected in a debutante's eyes. Bold scarlet text jumped out against it, declaring something all too loudly and arching his lip even further in the fuming epitome of a scowl.

_'Hell hath no fury as a mother scorned!'_

A fist curled tightly around the tiny cellphone and Heero angrily flicked it off and pocketed the annoying thing in his dirt-smudged jeans, hopefully to be gone the next day with all of this tangible insanity like a bad dream. All of this. Something so horrifically vivid had to a be a dream—he would wake up later out of this madness in twisted sheets, sweating to the bone, and he would push it aside for a moment and it would be forgotten and unable to be retrieved ever again. No mortal could handle a God, anyway.

But for the time being, he decided to half-heartedly humor this especially whimsical dream cycle and began trudging along the overgrown path leading away from the ramshackle little shed, in search of places where one would find one skittish and lascivious Angel of Death.

===

Heero slipped easily out of everyone's sight, keeping his presence concealed easily in the dark and ghoulish-looking gnarled foliage. Pushing aside thorn-beds woven carefully between the branches of dying saplings and ragged, fruitless bushes, the Japanese man moved forward through the woods, although he could hear the rumbling of cars going by and glimpse the road through gaps in the bushes and trees. First, he recognized the large, dark truck that escorted the contestants to and from the secluded haunted houses leaving rather quickly. No doubt the frightened men and women were so badly shaken even the driver could pick up on it, and knew not to pull his foot off the acceleration. With a snort, Heero looked ahead and ignored the cars passing by.

He was more intent on getting his stuff, and heading back to Tokyo and a tiny apartment with paper shoji screens and a noticeable absence of any demigods. If he didn't find the Shinigami, he didn't find the Shinigami. That's as far as his concern stretched at the moment, and he didn't feel the need to care that he didn't care.

He had never asked for any of this. None of the temperamental demands from Aphrodite, none of the cosmic responsibilities she had laid on top of him, and definitely none of the wedlock—none of the Shinigami's advances, none of that innocent shine in those violet-colored eyes, none of that affectionate smile he had the sudden sinking feeling had been reserved solely for him. And when he got them, he was ready to shove it all away and hopefully discourage the gods from ever thinking to give him anything again.

Sure, they got generous when _they_ needed something. Real generous, Heero thought bitterly. Before the train of thought could continue, he used his wrist to shove aside the last of the barren shrubs separating him and the eerie and empty yard of the safehouse. The sinister silhouette of the abandoned tuberculosis colony loomed in the background, a few hundred more meters off through the woods. The safehouse was humble enough, a simple metal-sided building with junk scattered about it from when there were actual patients dying next-door. Yard-work things; shovels, crates, and assorted gardening supplies rusted in their grassy graves around the safehouse. Heero barely noticed—he was still trying to keep Angels of Death out of his mind.

The stairs were strategically placed cement blocks. Heero had seen one of the other members fall on them once before, and the others had snickered as she stood up and brushed herself off, though it was clear her superstition had already taken a toll on her. He stalked up them easily enough, even when they shifted and buckled under his weight.

The door was open, so he pushed it and it swung open obediently. Inside, it still had the traces of human presence. Footsteps in the heavy dirt and dust across the floor, orange extension cords left behind, and a barren foldable table sitting among the stacked crates and rickety bunk beds on the far wall. There was an outline of where the laptop had sat, spitting out orders in a computerized voice. Heero looked at the spot where it would have been and frowned when he realized that if the computer had randomly chosen another team member for the mission to summon an Angel of Death instead of himself, none of this would have happened in the first place.

But no doubt Iria had had her fingers in it somehow. Probably slept with the God of Chance, he thought vindictively. And when she didn't appear, ready to slap him and chew him out like any good in-law, he knew he was probably rid of her.

His stuff was easy enough to find, after that. While the others had given all of theirs to the MTV staff to keep secure in the van and in the hotel that they were staying at, Heero had insisted keeping his with him at all times. He didn't trust a lot of the staff, in the first place, and he wasn't too afraid of any wandering ghouls taking his wallet from him. And it wasn't a lot to carry. His wallet, a jacket, and a small backpack with efficiently folded changes of clothes.

He went back into the forest unnoticed, as a final fleet of vans probably filled with technical equipment went by. Heero shrugged on his backpack and looked back over into the forest, uninterested with the glimpses of metal he could see through the foliage. The sky was already darkening beneath the thick covering of clouds and Heero didn't want to get caught in the woods when the sunset. He could walk back to the hotel by the way of the highway easily enough—it would be escaping the expanse of woods that was the tricky part.

As soon as everyone had left, Heero could get onto the road and stop avoiding human contact. There was no telling how his teammates would react to him after what had happened. The crew was probably leaving a night early because one of the contestants had brought back a strange creature and then disappeared. He wouldn't be surprised if the police started combing the woods looking for him the next day. But by then, he'd be in the land of the rising sun, forgetting it all happened.

He glanced over again after traveling a ways further and saw a grey technical van parked to the side of the road, in a small clearing of the foliage—a turnabout. The side door was open, he could tell. It was still hard to see through all the tangling leaves, but he could definitely see a black shape sitting in the van. The people driving it probably had gone to retrieve the hidden cameras they had planted in the woods where contestants were sometimes to travel and all the lights they'd set up on the road to guide the trucks in. Good. After they were done, he could stop trudging through decomposing leaves and use the road.

The black figure sitting in the opened door suddenly moved, and something inexplicably caused Heero to squint and look closer, though he was sure he couldn't have cared less what was inside the van. It pulled him forward, almost as if he were on a string, and he leaned forward and pushed the brush aside with his wrist until the tugging sensation faded and he could see more clearly into the opened van, but not the glimpse of red glowing around his finger briefly. The black figure shimmered suddenly.

Wings—black ones.

The Shinigami.

For a second, Heero was revisited by the flickering image of the younger Shinigami flashing his singular tooth in a priceless grin over his shoulder, smiling it unknowingly at who would later be his arranged husband. The next, he was pushing his way through the brush and towards the rocky backcountry road where the van was parked. It seemed so automatic that he vaguely remembered thinking, '_Wasn't I just going to leave him?_' but it seemed like only some silly daydream. Heero glanced both ways for anyone that might see him and saw no one, luckily, and loped across the road.

When he got to the opened sliding door, he saw the exact state of the God of Death, rolled up into a ratty-looking blanket which no doubt had been used to lay camera parts on, from the grease and smell of cleaning chemicals. Shini's long unbound hair was matted with leaves, scattered over his back and shoulders erratically, while he curled up on his stomach and stuck his face into the crook of his elbow. As soon as Heero's heartbeat settled some, he could hear the telltale hitches in the Shinigami's breathing and the wretched moans he tried to bite back. Unsuccessfully. That's where Heero began to frown again.

The reason he'd gotten into so much trouble was because he couldn't stand watching anyone cry, especially miserably like this specific Shinigami had the tendency to do. And going back had somehow made him an eternally married man without even a hint of a stag party. Heero stood and watched the shaking ball of wings, hair, and blanket. Eventually the slow breathing and violent hitches evolved back into a low mewling sob and it clawed directly at his chest. Heero couldn't stand just standing anymore even though the anger was still fresh in his mind, so he put an abrupt hand on the Shinigami's back, careful not to pull his hair.

"Hey, get up," he commanded lowly, careful not to draw attention with his voice. When the sobbing mass didn't respond, his frown deepened. "Hey, listen to me. Get out of there before anyone sees you, I said."

The Shinigami made a sound that was something like what teenagers say when they get dragged out of bed for school—just five more minutes. The deity visible curled in on himself and didn't seem to recognize who it was, stand there, talking to him. But soon, that changed. Shini bolted up in the fashioned of a spooked doe, his mythically violet eyes wide and fearful and leaves scattered through his hair. He saw the Japanese man standing in the opened door and soon began pitiful mewling again, grinding his teeth together just to not cry again.

Heero frowned. "Come on, you're gonna go home now."

However, the Shinigami seemed to be able to read his true intention of dumping him off with his mother and never even thinking of him again and the sobs returned. With a groan, he shook his head animatedly and scampered to the back wall and pulling the blanket with him. His wide violet eyes were bloodshot from crying, and it twisted another part of Heero just watching him.

"I promise. I'll take you home! Don't you want to go home?" he insisted, leaning forward into the dimness of the van with both hands on the cold floor. It frustrated him how—like his mother—this Shinigami seemed so eager on switching from mood to mood. Ten minutes earlier he was sure he wouldn't have been able to keep him off him and now he was pulling away from him as if he were the bubonic plague incarnate.

"It's okay. Just come here," Heero tried in a softer tone. Still those violet eyes watched him fearfully without a response, and chewing up the chances that they would escape unseen. Every moment that this over-emotional deity spent sobbing, the crew that had abandoned this van temporarily was a few steps closer.

Heero wasn't stupid, despite being cold to the Angel of Death. He knew that if the public saw the Shinigami, there would be a massive uproar of either fear or a massive headhunt. And neither would be pretty if it got on his Heavenly record that he had accidentally handed over a God of Death to the American government, who were oh-so-fond of their probes and needles.

"Come on!" Heero tried again, keeping his voice to a whisper.

There was only a whimper in response as the deity brought the blanket vulnerably up to his chin and began nervously gnawing on it.

Heero bit his lip as well, knowing there was one alternative that would probably work, but it would be admitting something he would had to admit. Attachment, even if it was in the most distant of senses. But that dreading sensation in the pit of his stomach told him that he had precious little time to waste, so he swallowed the traces of reservation as best as he could and leaned forward. "Come here... Shini," he said hesitantly.

The Shinigami froze, blinking warily at his nickname. It was better than sobbing and shrinking away, Heero thought grudgingly to himself.

"It's all right, Shini, I'm gonna bring you home and you don't have to see me again," Heero said, crawling cautiously up into the van. He was surprised to hear a tone of something strange in his voice, and more surprised at how it seemed to pull the Shinigami easily to him. Shini's innocent violet eyes were unmoving, locked on his face as he nervously crept forward as well, always ready to flinch backward if there were any sudden movements.

"That's it, come on now," Heero whispered, reaching out. He sat sideways on the edge with his toes hanging above the dirt, reaching out across the van. "That's it, Shini. Come here."

Shini warily looked at his outstretched hand as if it were the snake that had seduced Eve into biting the apple, like it would leave the second he tried to take it. His wide violet and purple eyes looked up to Heero's face for an instant and seemed to freeze up again. They were frightened, and Heero wasn't sure exactly why. Something changed in that innocently fearful face that second, and Shini lunged forward and took his hand nervously. Heero instantly started to pull him back out of the van and Shini used his free hand to wrap the blanket around him and take it with.

The Japanese man looked around as a mist began to drift down out of the sky while Shini started to jump down from the van. The roads were fortunately clear of any human activity. He tightened his hand around the Shinigami's without even noticing, before saying, "Alright. Let's go before anyone comes back."

Shini yelped helplessly as his wings that were still absently hanging loosely in their normal position struck the top of the van as he tried to step down and he crumpled onto his bottom. With a windy _fwap!_ they clamped to his shoulders protectively and the deity's face crumpled up in pain.

"Oww oww ow ow ow!" Shini whimpered, pulling the blanket tighter and pulling away his hand. A few lonesome tears ventured out onto his face and it twisted further as he tried in vain to keep them back.

Heero twisted around and frowned unhappily. He lunged back after the Shinigami and pulled him up by the arm. "Hurry up! You can cry later," he barked impatiently. There was no way he'd let him slink back into his hiding spot—he was coming with him!

Heero didn't realize how fervent his thoughts must have been because he jerked the whimpering Angel of Death rather roughly and Shini jerked forward and narrowly caught himself with his long legs. The blanket fell behind and crumpled in the gravel on the shoulder and his luxurious black robes dragged over the damp blacktop as a mist hazed low across the ground. Heero's black Converse sneakers thudded loudly across the wet road while Shini's were completely bare and moved silently. They were nearly across the road, nearly to the safety a dense, dark forest provided for creepy, crawly things, such as Gods of Death, when the truck whirled around the corner.

Heero never really found out what that truck was for or even why it had returned to the Fear safehouse, but he knew that the driver hadn't been expecting a single soul on the road. In the mist the headlights were fuzzy but still bright. In surprise he naturally paused for a second, tensed his hand around the Shinigami, then lunged back towards the other side of the road. It was agonizingly close when he felt the Shinigami stop and plant his feet in the middle of the truck's path. He staggered forward into the ditch and looked over his shoulder.

Shini didn't have a look of fear in his eyes as the headlights bore down on him, painting his face pale and his black wings with magnificent white highlights. The driver gasped unexpectedly as the image of the winged man standing in front of his car disappeared just before he would have struck him like raw hamburger.

Heero saw the Shinigami disappear in the truck's headlights and the brakes screech immediately afterward.

He was gone. Again.

Blessed day.

Before the man in the truck, who was obviously frightened, could get out and investigate and therefore see him, he dove into the woods again, cursing sharply beneath his breath. There was a mild tugging sensation, but in his anger, Heero only believed that it was the shrubbery that clawed at his clothes and pressed on until it faded. But he definitely didn't pass over the feeling that he'd slipped through his fingers on purpose...

Heero stalked angrily to a clearing in the woods while adrenaline still coursed through him. He shoved aside a curtain of Spanish moss from his face to flip open the tiny pink Divine cellphone and angrily scan the stored numbers. Luckily, the Goddess of Love wasn't completely ditzy and forgetful not to leave her son-in-law with a number to contact her at, and Heero punched it in after memorizing for ceremony's sake. After this, he was going to make sure he never had to call her ever again.

He jabbed at the numbers and restarted many times because his fingers were so big, but when it finally caught, his face was beginning to flush.

The ringtone was sickening. The color was revoltingly girlish. The misty air was infurating. Heero was truly frustrated, and it wasn't hard to see, as he started pacing a few rings into his wait.

Finally the line picked up and Heero wasted no time in snapping, "Iria!"

A buttercream voice gently discarded the angry tone with a, "Hn," and told him cordially that Iria was out at the moment and could not be reached. Important business.

Heero thought ironically, _God take me now, or I'll start taking out things with me_.

"Just tell her to call Heero back as soon as possible," he said brusquely and quickly slammed the tiny cellphone shut with the palm of his hand, cutting off the very sweet and ceremonious goodbye the secretary had begun to bid him. With the same deep frown adorning his face that he'd started out with from the beginning of all his troubles, he waited for a few aggravating seconds for the cellphone to ring and then gave up and shoved it in his pocket. He shrugged his backpack on better and began to walk towards the airport, intent on never thinking of that beautiful, damned deity of the damned.

===

"Suck in."

"Jesus Christ!"

Iria gasped violently as the maroon-swathed dress-sprite yanked the band of her kimono like a Medieval-strength corset and just about crushed her angelic ribs. "Are you trying to kill me?" she gasped as she crumpled conveniently against the carved stone pillar that came to stand at her bust now that it had been shoved into her chin, practically. The dress-sprite floated around to face her.

"No, that's Hades' job, remember?" it monotone dully in its face of doll-dramatic makeup.

Iria groaned and rested her face in her palm, while her blonde hair was tied up loosely in a bun and the stray strands stuck stressfully into the air. She mumbled unhappily, "Don't remind me." The Goddess of Death gingerly tried adjusting her corset before it fused angrily into her skin and staggered off in the general direction of the stairs at her full speed, though you wouldn't have known it, or been able to ask because she could only draw slivers of oxygen in her lungs in the moment.

She wandered toward the door and grumbled simultaneously. "I'm screwed. I don't have a real report. I'm improvising—of course I'm going to be dead meat! I don't even know where the Earth my son is, or if his husband even gives a flying fuck about him enough to try and find him before he ends up killing himself."

"Hm, that's bad," the dress-sprite commented dully as it floated beside her easily. Either she was losing her youthful edge or this kimono band was going to cut her in half if she took four more steps, Iria thought.

"Really, I sympathize," the dress-sprite deadpanned reassuringly. "But uh, Miss—"

"What?" Iria asked irritably, as the vein that had been twitching all day screamed over her brow.

"The stairs are the other way."

She glanced over her shoulder and sure enough the dark stone arch was all the way on the other side of the carved cavern, leering at her. The Goddess of Love picked up the edges of her white and pink kimono with both hands and waddled the other direction peevishly.

"I knew that. I was just walking off this damned corset!"

===

[[[[A/N]]]]

I should probably explain the title, if I haven't before already. There's a little old book {pink, I think} that's titled My Darling, My Hamburger that has a few select, mildly objective {hence the Hamburger part} scenes that are very explicit for a schoolgirl, such as myself, and probably planted bad little seeds in my mind. I thought of the book when I was titling this story. My Shinigami, My Hamburger. Thanks everyone who takes the bother to actually read or review my story. It helps so much! Especially since the 6th-Chapter Hump is coming up--my cursed inablity to carry stories much past the 6th chapter without dying. Wink, wink.


	5. It's the Thoughtlessness that Counts

Chapter 5

It's the Thoughtlessness that Counts

Just before night fell, the overcast skies parted to allow the sun and the glowing red-orange light it brought to shine through. Any threats of rain disappeared with it and the eerie mist that had once hung through the trees faded as well. That brings us to the singular silhouette walking along the open stretch of road. Heero Yuy had just left the inky forest behind for a lonesome expanse of open gravel road. Where the ancient pine trees and withering elms gave it way to endlessly uninhabited grassland and scattered groves, the orange glow spreading out as the sun drifted lower.

All traces of the adequately spooked television crew had disappeared in favor of civilization, taking a very frightening and unbelievable secret with them. They'd been visited by Death—and they'd been lucky enough to survive and avoid wedlock.

Heero still couldn't understand how or why he'd been chosen for something so ridiculous, something so unorthodox! As far as he knew, Gods didn't just marry mortals, at least not in modern days anymore when few still kept their faith unconditionally. It was unthinkable, unheard of, plucking mortals out of their lives to set up a troublesome Angel. He shouldered his backpack irritably and kept his steady walking pace along the shoulder of the gravel road even though he had this tugging sensation that drew him inexplicably back toward the trees in the back of his mind.

As he walked, his dark blue eyes were glazed with thought and didn't notice the tiny red string looped around his right pinkie finger, shining vibrantly in the presence of the sunset.

Blood red and divinely unbreakable, the string stretched without losing an ounce of its tautness. It glimmered brightly in the dying light, and remained invisible to naked mortal eye otherwise. The ribbon extended back into the woods, weaving precariously through multiple gnarled branches without a hint of earthly tangling. It remained pristinely linear and wound through the forest until it found the corresponding right pinkie of one black-winged Angel of Death, trudging cautiously through the decaying leaves underfoot.

The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami spun his head again at a rustle, eyes fearfully wide. An array of leaves still tangled in his hair and his knees and arms were filthy from loosing his balance on the unfamiliar Earth terran more than once. Dark streaks of mud marred his face as well. By now, he had managed to settle down some—he'd learned quickly that not all rustles meant a Hisa-me [1] was prowling behind him, waiting to pounce and thrash him for their sadistic pleasure. But the bloodshot veins were still visible in the corner of his eyes as he turned around again and rubbed his face on his wrist. He kept wandering aimlessly into the woods.

Shini put his hand on a tree trunk and shrieked shortly afterwards as he felt something creep across the back of it and ripped his hand away and clutched it to his chest. The frightening itch continued and he fearfully saw tiny black things crawling over his hand. Unaware that they were harmless ants, Shini yelped in surprise and began wildly shaking his hand. He slapped at them until the unfamiliar black creatures disappeared. The Shinigami's black robes dragged nosily through the leaves as he began to run again.

He ran while dry bracken clawed his arms and torso, tugging at the black silk swathed around his waist and dragging across the mossy earth. Finally, he grew tired and wheezed in this Earth air that was awfully thin and cold compared to the heat and humidity that spread through all of Underworld. Shini's legs ached as he slowed and leaned against a tiny sapling of a tree in his exhaustion and fell over when it snapped under his weight. He tumbled to the ground with a loud thud and half-muffled whine so that his legs flew into the air and he generously tasted the dirt.

Off in the misty distance, a few long-legged deer sprung away from the sound of the Angel of Death toppling to the ground.

He sat up again and spit out the twig in his mouth. A shudder of black followed and Shini's wings shook themselves free of the itchy scraps of moss and leaves. However, that couldn't shake the increasingly distressed expression on the deity's face as he staggered back up with no other option than to wander the woods as his emotions built and built. His eyes stung, but he doggedly wiped them before they filled with tears. Shini trudged aimlessly forward and sniffled as he reached the base of an ancient oak tree.

Musty, warm water splashed underfoot as he stepped in a mud puddle and stopped before the ghostly white tree, titling his head back so that he could stare upward at the dead branches. Death was something he was familiar with—it pulsed in his veins. He could tell, by sniffing once or twice, that this tree had been hollowed out by a lucky strike of lightning, singing it and leaving it blackened to die slowly.

Shini noticed that the sky had darkened overhead with a displeased pout of his lips. Glaring at the sky as if it were some stubborn playmate being uncooperative to spite him, the God of Death slowly realized that sunlight was warming the side of his face and twisted to look into it. The sun was setting in a golden red blaze, and down with it, it dragged the Shinigami's heart.

He hated being alone in the dark.

Nervously chewing his lip as the familiar hot sting in his eye returned, Shini flickered a look back at the hollowed tree—it's gangly fingers twisting up into the sky—and began to climb. It started with a tentative hand on the rough grain of the tree's old twisted bark, and continued until Shini had carefully scaled up into the top branches, his legs aching and panting steadily. The sharp, dead branches held no give and bit at his wings as they brushed, so he kept them as tight to his shoulders as he could.

The glow of sunset eventually evened out into flat blackness. Clouds crept in and swallowed all traces of starlight. The moon glowed dully behind the heavenly curtain, unsuccessful to shine through.

Shini found a suitable perch and quickly clamored up there. Beyond the canopy there was only a few feet of trunk before the tree turned jagged and black from where it had taken the blunt of the lightning strike. Just below it, there was one major branch protruding out before the weaker portion splintered off and hung by a few fibers. The Angel of Death sniffled weakly and cuffed at his nose as he curled against the trunk and shielded himself from the alien creatures and unfamiliar night of Earth with his wings.

Meanwhile, Heero paced on, his sneakers striking the lonesome expanse of blacktop roadway with clipped thudding sounds. He barely registered the action of walking—his mind was absorbed in a general malaise that refused to think of anything. It was like sleepwalking with the awareness of the waking dead. He had thought of the Shinigami wandering through the forest once, but afterward his thoughts had faded out. After a few hours of walking in the dark, straining to see the guiding white line on the side of the road, he came over a rolling hill to see distant traces of lights below.

The Japanese man blinked once, slowly becoming aware that he was drained and hungry as well. He re-shouldered the weight of his backpack and expelled the air in his lungs in a sigh. After stopping at the apex of the hill, he grudgingly began walking again towards the city. Luckily, he could see a far off light gleam down onto a stretch of railroad tracks.

The red string gleamed, tugged at him once, and Heero swatted at his hand, absently mistaking it for some night insect biting him.

Shini, discouraged, let the string slip back into its normal taut state after he didn't feel like playing with it uselessly. He was beginning to sob again anyway and his vision was blurring rapidly. He hiccuped violently in a futile attempt to suck it up, and thought what was the use of not crying? He'd hurt _Teishu _[2], his _Bishounen—_just like he'd hurt everyone else! Just like how he'd hurt his best friend and he had gone to sleep forever all red and sticky. Shini slammed his nose between his knees and brought his arms tight around his legs.

Why did he always do that? Hurt them? Scare them?

He cried, as if that could bring him the answers.

The black-winged Angel of Death whimpered for a long time into the night until his voice grew ragged and he simply sniffled and let his tears fall silently instead. The moon hung high in the sky behind the thick clouds as the night wore on, and wore on the Shinigami. Eventually Shini shed all of his humanoid tears and still found the wretched ache in his head still yearning to cry, and unknowingly, his tears came out as Darkness.

Like oil, these black liquid tears slid easily down his face and dripped down toward the ground. A thick dark power swirled within them and slowly, they began to pool at the bottom of the tree. They crawled down the tree bark almost as if they had a life of their own. A dim sizzling noise followed as the collective tears filled a small acidic puddle, hissing and chewing through the earth in a swirling black pool. It hissed and spat and slowly began to still, unnaturally.

Shini sobbed himself to sleep, unaware, and Heero Yuy passed the first streetlamp at the furthest part of town.

And from that sizzling pool of Darkness, a slithering black figure slid out from the murky depth, the only sound being the crackling of the acid splashing and Shini's distant dreaming whines. A shapeless, heartless shadow of Darkness, it began gliding toward the glowing lights of town.

===

"One coach to San Francisco." Grimy fingers hastily shoved the appropriate currency beneath the glass pane.

"Alright," the graveyard-shift worker drawled to himself, quickly pulling one out and sliding it out in exchange before glancing down at the bills. "That'll be—"

"It's there," Heero growled. "I counted it out."

The middle-aged man considered his tone briefly for tones of danger and when he glanced up, Heero's stressed expression and frown spelled out he was simply impatient and rather drained. He shrugged and began flipping through the bills and whispering under his breath. "Okay, it's all here," he affirmed, while the drone of a radio baseball announcer went on somewhere in the background. There were posters plastered to the wall, tacked next to bulletins and memos, Heero noticed uselessly as he slipped his wallet into his back pocket and took the ticket.

"You'll have to wait until morning," the worker said, pointing to a schedule and jabbing it. There was a midnight train scheduled, he explained, but there were a few mechanics working some engine trouble down the line. Heero looked drably over his shoulder and frowned at the sight of the train, parked on the first track as a few men in greasy jumpsuits worked with lights flickering in their helmets.

"Sorry, but it shouldn't be ready until morning. There's another run for San Fran tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock, sir. We all apologize for the inconvenience."

"Thanks," Heero grunted insincerely as he began to walk away.

"There's a motel in town, if you need a place to stay!" he called out once the unfamiliar, grimacing Asian man stalked out of his sight.

"No thanks," Heero responded minimistically. He dropped his backpack with a thud in the darkness, just beyond the light of the ticket window. It landed at the wrought iron foot of the bench he had selected to be his bed for the night, and Heero Yuy laid down in exhaustion and necessity. He slid his head onto his palm for a pillow and let his feet hang into the air at the other end. As he easily fell unconscious to the random clanking and clattering of mechanics nursing an ailing train, silent killer entered town, leaving a slime trail of Darkness that sizzled and disappeared as it slunk past the most distant streetlamp in town.

===

Persephone twiddled uselessly with one of her vibrant magenta ear tails, watching her distantly and adding to the multiple distractions that Iria had to deal with. She was lying flat out in the face of Dis, of Hades, of the Lord of the Underworld, and surely one of her lungs would explode in her chest if here kimono didn't stop choking her, for crying out loud—and now she couldn't shake off the itchy sensation of this unwilling wife staring blankly at her as she spoke. The situation left something to be desired. Dying not to grind her teeth as nervous habit yearned to, Iria gently refolded her hands in front of her and glanced back to the bluish, chiseled-stoic face of Hades as she continued.

"I assure you that the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami is well-adjusted to his new environment and is very content with his new surroundings," she said, finishing her opening statement. That was only after weaving an agonizingly long white lie to cover her ass for the fact that her son was constantly bawling and no doubt having some sort of quarrel with his unemotional bastard of a husband. She could practically smell the havoc brewing above ground.

Hades nodded quietly, grunting in acceptance of her speech then nodded towards one of his ghastly servants. The emaciated troll-like creature padded obediently over to the hovering stone pillar where the Amendment Called Forever remained regally, tied with a brilliant silver ribbon for aesthetic touch. The creature fluttered up with the gaunt wings of bone protruding from his shoulder blades, took the parchment, and fluttered back down to Hades' left. Persephone sat on his right in an identical stone throne, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

Iria automatically stiffened as he unrolled the parchment with his Deathly hands, unimaginable Darkness seeping out from his dark blue skin as if it were dust clouding from his ancient joints. His eyes rolled across the Latin text and his booming low voice startled her slightly. "And this bond was approved by Bakka-o, I presume."

"Yes," the Goddess of Love answered politely.

"And the candidate is... capable of handling such a troublesome demigod?"

Here she twisted back the urge to smile. For once, she didn't have to pull her answers out of thin air—she'd actually done her homework in this area. "I pried into his history and found that he had a strongly militaristic bloodline that links back to a prominent line of samurai sprouting from the original Kamikaze. He also grew up at an Army Reserve base until both parents died tragically in a violent insurrection and he forged his own existence. More than capable, physically."

Those lifeless beady, dark eyes lifted up to examine her face. "What were their names?"

His sudden question spooked Iria out of a line of thought. "I'm sorry, excuse me?"

"The names of this candidate's parents. What were they?"

"Odin Lowe and Yumi Yuy," Iria stated, though the nervous flutter of her heart still wouldn't calm after hearing that strongly imposing voice. Luckily, she steadied her composure with her sweet tone of voice as she continued, more confidently. "Never married, but both nurtured the boy to grow strong."

A wicked grin erased the stony expression and his Deathly eyes twinkled, almost. "Ah yes, those two. One of my favorite works, I would have to say," he rumbled happily.

The pleasure with which he recalled the manner of killing her son-in-law's parents didn't seem as amusing to Iria, and she frowned slightly, though her pouting red-lipstick disguised it.

"And emotionally—will he be able to nurture this son of yours, as well?"

Iria's smile instantly returned in a frozen panic. "Yes, I'm sure," she gritted out sweetly, trying her best to be pretty and convincing simultaneously in the face of a entity that could reduce her to smoldering ashes over the courses of many painful centuries if he displeased in her in anyway. Luckily, good fortune seemed to smile upon her for a minute—while it toyed mercilessly with her son—and the God of the Underworld seemed pleased when he pursed his lips and grunted affirmatively.

Still reading from the enchanted parchment, Hades hummed satisfactorily to himself. "Heero Yuy, huh?"

Iria nodded politely and nervously glanced over at the pink-haired wife at his side. She was still staring blankly.

"Have they met yet?"

"Yes, my Lord," the Goddess of Love said.

"And the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami likes him?"

"Unhealthily so, my Lord," she said with a forced chuckle.

That wicked semblance of a smile returned again. For an instant, she feared in the pit of her chest that he would inquire of how they were getting along and feared how she could cover it up without lying to badly. She had a sinking suspicion that he would smell her fear, uncover the current tattered state of Shinigami's marriage, and simply destroy him to be rid of the nuisance, if she grew too nervous. But the words that escaped his lips were sounded sweeter than a Death Row pardon.

"So I'm rid of him, then? No more eyeballs in my dinner?" He roared at his rough joke, referring to the time he'd discovered the waywardly and mischievous Shinigami dropping demon eyes in his ambrosia, and Iria conjured a giggly sound to follow, though her nervousness still choked her. The listless Persephone, however, rolled her shining green eyes and ignored her husband's guffaws.

The God of the Underworld smirked at her, and she could have sworn he glowered happily—as if he knew something she didn't. "You may leave, Aphrodite."

Iria bowed graciously. "I thank you for your time, Hades."

===

"Bad?" the dress-sprite drawled lifelessly, trying to be supportive in it's stone voice. The translucent violet wings accented the gothic black and purple array and makeup as they whirred violently to keep up with Iria's irritated speed and Angelic wingspread of eight feet. Great updrafts whirled up at the tiny violet dress-sprite from her white wings and she buckled in the air precariously, waiting to assist the Goddess of Love with her troublesome pink and red kimono. However, Iria was so upset that all whims of decency or ladylike tact had stripped away, along with the corset she had groused about breathlessly.

"Malicious thing!" she cursed as she ripped it off and carelessly tossed it to the wind as she flapped along. The dress-sprite dove sharply to catch the priceless silk sash and flutter back up to Iria's side. She stripped as she flew.

"Damn it, that was too close! One more minute and I'd probably be ready to pull out of the oven by now," the blonde deity grumbled unhappily. "Oh, yes, Heero Yuy's going to get a piece of my mind when I get a hold of his scrawny ass." The frustration perverted into a sense of corruption as she grinned and the dull roar of an airplane whirred below them. "He's going to regret ever stressing me out! Ever double crossing my son! Ever making that little nasty pout face at me so insolently!"

"You tell him, Ma'am," it chorused in monotone.

They were gliding miles above the bustling, polluted surface of Earth, skimming their toes and wingtips through clouds on all sides. Above them a few more miles they would stumble upon Heaven's domain. That was reserved, however for Gods and Goddesses not associated with Hades and the Underworld, filled with its assorted Fallen Angels and demons.

Iria was located snugly between each of the realms—a cocktail or three with red men with pronged pitchforks on Tuesdays and Tupperware parties with those pudgy cherubs on Thursdays who so did enjoy their reheated left-overs. She was in a position of absolute freedom as far as she was concerned. God could wave his cane at her disapprovingly, but it didn't stop her from frolicking with the sinners when she sought a good time. Her Valentine Realm was awfully close now that she thought about it, and filled her wings with air to cushion her abrupt halt.

The violet dress-sprite followed her intently, regally folding the sash and waiting as Iria began discarding the rest of the pastel kimono.

"Can you believe it? I give this pathetic moping mortal—who had no family or loved ones, if you remember—the most beautiful, loving, powerful creature in all of Hell and he refuses without even spending so much as a day with the poor thing!" Iria groused. Her long fingers curled around the kimono and unwrapped it from her shoulders and passed it to the dress-sprite.

"What an ingrate," it monotoned in its gravel-tone.

"Exactly!" the Goddess of Love exclaimed as she simultaneously unleashed her long blonde hair, tossing it in the air to loosen it. She teased the air slightly with her long fingers and summoned a white silk robe from the nearest misty clouds and wrapped it around her, flipping out the collar.

"And he's my son, no less, and he has the nerve to try and defy me—to hurt my son! He should be licking my feet for what I gave him. Shini could change his life if he didn't prejudge him and hate him simply because he was born of the darkest, deepest, most fiery pit of Hell! Shini is a sugar cube! He wouldn't want to hurt a fly!" She tilted her head as she summoned and effortlessly applied her scarlet red makeup while shrugging on the robe to cover her lingerie. "It breaks his heart that he can't always control his powers and ends up frightening all his friends off."

She paused and looked deeply at the golden lipstick tube. "Heero just doesn't understand that Shini has been just as lonesome as him, but for a millennium in Hell. Otherwise he'd know just how much Shini loves him already."

The dress-sprite blinked at her, soaking up the emotional words, then focused on something beyond her shoulder.

In the periwinkle blue texture of the sky was a jagged tear where a sweet looking blonde peered out, and Iria spun about and exclaimed at her secretary happily. The aroma of Valentine wafted through the gateway, tempting her of sweeter things. "Nadette, sugar!" The blonde goddess glided ecstatically over to her and smiled sweetly, flattening her crème-colored silk robes. "It seems like ages! I've had a horrific day so far, so how about going for a drink at our favorite bar? A beautiful relaxation! You know, that one lounge with—"

"I'm sorry, Iria, but I've just received a message for you," the green-eyed blonde spirit girl cooed apologetically, trying to find a smile that would soothe her superior's impending rage when she delivered the remained of the message. She'd overheard the outburst only moments before, unfortunately, and knew it would not please her in the least bit. "It was from a rather angry-sounding mortal."

Iria's face fell instantly and her sugary grace disappeared, as was to be expected.

The secretary continued carefully, "Heero Yuy called while you were out and asked that you call him back, as soon as possible."

Both the dress-sprite and the secretary Nadette flinched as the Goddess of Love stormed by her and dove into Valentine toward her office in a rage, ripping the jagged portal further with the powerful downstroke of her wings.

"That brat better not have lost him again! Incompetent _whiner_!" she shouted as her voice faded off into the distance, as irate as ever.

===

The pigeons scavenging for an early morning scrap scattered in a burst of feathers flapping on the air as one disheveled Heero Yuy sat up from the bench where he'd spent the night. Groggily, his vision blurred at first before he managed to blink the sleep out of them. Awful. He felt raggedly awful. His hair was greasy and tangled between his fingers and the sharp pangs of hunger just below his ribs gnawed at his stomach. And still, the singular image of the Shinigami grinning as warmly as he could with only one tooth visited him whenever his thoughts wandered.

With a morning-gravelly growl, he staggered up and swung his backpack onto his shoulder to trudge off in a random direction in search of a decent breakfast. He only needed something to tide him over until his train arrived.

It was the assorted shrieks that eventually drew the young Japanese man to the bustling swarm of pale-faced people drawn around the intersection in the shadow of a coffee shop. Ambulances and flashing police cars sectioned off the other roads, creating a square of bustling, screaming activity. Being of a short stature, Heero could only snatch glimpses over the shoulders of the men and women at the back of the crowd. Another frown marred his face and he brushed it off carelessly, too hassled to bother shoving through a mass of bodies just to see what the fuss was about. He could really care less.

What he couldn't see, as he walked off back the way he had come from, was the corpse sprawled in the limelight and the hole in his chest gnawed ragged that caused all the ado. That, and the corpse's heart was missing. Crimson blood collected and simmered in the sun, before siphoning eerily off through the holes in the sewer drain cover in the center of the road. Police officers rallied the stunned citizens to a safe distance, allowing the assorted medical crew went hard to work scratching their heads at the strange teeth marks in the wound. The sun seared on silently overhead, a glaringly uncooperative witness to the whole thing.

Heero Yuy agitatedly brushed his fingers through his thick, dark brown hair and strode off aimlessly, desperate for something to chew up his agonizingly long waiting time. Strolling through the dappled shade of the ash saplings withering in the choking summer heat, he glanced momentarily over his shoulder at the swarms of stunned citizens. As he squinted in the sun, his Prussian blue eyes momentarily seized on something slithering amongst the various sandal-clad feet. But his attention tore away—an effeminate sounding ringtone danced in his pocket as the pink _Hermes _cellphone rang.

"About time!" Heero said groggily, gritting his teeth as he clawed the obnoxious roseate-colored phone out of his pocket. With an angry flick of the wrist, he lifted it up to answer the call knowing very well who it would be. Simultaneously, the grievous wail of the ambulance once again bit the air and the Japanese man whirled his head around automatically. The red-and-white vehicle sped off past him, apparently in hot pursuit of another endangered life, it tires hissing violently on the blacktop as it cranked sharp right. He furrowed his brow tightly, while the fleet of police cars flocked closely behind like annoying, flashing apostles.

He shifted away from the road as the snarling voice of a Deity roared at him through the tiny speaker pits. "What, Yuy? What's with all this as soon as possible' shit? What did you do to him now?"

"Just a damned second, Iria—it's too noisy out here!" Heero growled impatiently already sparked by her galling, dynamically commanding voice. The incessant wailing of sirens and terrified shrieks annoyed him as well. Anything practically could—he was still bothered by the never-ending images of Shinigami haunting him and the eternally permanent wedlock he'd been tossed into. His fierce blue eyes hunted rapidly for a hopefully silent, secluded place and sniffed out a rather dull tavern.

Unknowingly, as he shoved the heavy wooden door open with his shoulder alone, the flickering black presence Heero had spotted moments before solidified into it's ominous shadowy state as it slithered onto the sidewalk. A dripping line of crimson glimmered on its raised hulk of a head as the blackness parted momentarily, revealing rows of serrated, demonically hungry teeth. This slithering, living pool of Darkness hissed venomously and leapt at Heero Yuy's heels. It bubbled like acid and hissed violently when it bit into the wooden door that swung close just behind the young Japanese man.

Then it dissipated into the same sinister mist and slithered away, undetectable by mortal vision, sniffing out fresh prey.

Inside, cigarette smoke reigned supreme, impregnating the stale air and swirling near the sputtering vent. Luckily only the moody-looking bartender was present, too consumed with her nicotine consumption and a trashy paperback romance novel to get involved with the murder audience outside in the broiling sun. This middle-aged bleached blonde nodded congenially to the stranger without lifting her eyes. She grunted something through her cancer stick about the tap going insane but Heero brushed by, intent for the bathrooms.

Iria's voice was computerized and pleasantly tiny as he held it in his palm, away from his ear, and shoved the men's room door open. It was expectedly grimy, but completely emptied—thanks to the commotion outside. Heero sighed generously with a tinge of bad humor before finally responding to the demigod's incessant snapping.

"About time you called me," Heero monotoned lowly, cutting the angry string of protests sweetly short.

"Forgive me, Arrogant Mortal, but I have serious matters to attend and I can't always baby-sit you! In fact, I was just risking my _existence_ in front of Hades, the single most dangerous thing in all the pits of Hell, trying to convince him that you hadn't run my son out and possibly messed up this entire scheme!" Iria groused, equally irritated with this in-law as he was with her. In fact, their tempers were rather similar, fanning the flames all the more intensely.

"I don't care what you had planned, this is my life," he informed her curtly, managing to reign in his own resentments enough to sound relatively civilized in the face of all this godly chaos. " I don't care anymore. You deal with him—it. I'm quitting."

"What?" Iria snapped in retort immediately.

"I'm done." In the grimy, half-chipped mirror he glared at his fierce reflection, his own blue eyes sparking dully. "Dissolving the union, divorcing, whatever you care to call it. I'm not going to fucking deal with this anymore. I refuse."

"Oh, no, Heero Yuy—"

"Oh, I really think so. I tried to retrieve your son, but as soon as I tried to help him, he simply disappeared again." Strangely, he noted an alien flicker in his own expression. "Obviously he doesn't want anything to do with me."

A venomous growl warned him impatiently as the Goddess of Love struggled next to find the appropriate words. "Shini—he—he's got this complex."

"Oh, you failed to mention that. In that case, I'd be happy to take him back," he said, the emotionless sarcasm enough to physically sting.

"No, you insensitive brat—Shini has a killing complex," Iria stated firmly, her snarling red lips almost visible to the mortal as he listened. "He's deathly afraid of hurting anything or anyone. He can't always control his powers because they are so massive and they end up overwhelming him and either injuring or killing someone. Shini hides away from everyone if he thinks he's going to hurt them, that fool—he's probably terrified and alone somewhere!" The motherly tone seeped again, and Heero found it difficult to completely smother the tiny sound of regret in his heart. "He's already spent a night alone, no doubt sobbing and afraid!"

"Fine," Heero growled, surprising himself with how icy his voice could turn, "let him be alone if he refuses my help."

"That's a very bad idea, Heero Yuy. There's no telling what—"

"I said that I didn't care."

"Heero, please! He's probably so afraid out there—"

"Don't be ridiculous," he snapped finally, slamming his fist onto the porcelain sink as the frustration swelled in his chest. "How can a God of Death be afraid of anything?"

"When Shini gets hysterical, things won't be pretty," Iria warned instantly, her violent tone darkening to something more ominous.

"Then come get him yourself. He doesn't want anything to do with me, and neither do I!" Heero yelled finally. His palm flew up and slapped the pink cellphone shut, cutting off whatever protest Iria had begun. Before his voice could finish the angry echo, he was storming back out into the smoke, past the uninterested barkeep, and out into the blistering glare of the sun. And somewhere vaguely, he wondered why the frustration in his chest soured, turning half-nauseous. He wondered why he couldn't eradicate that image in his rage, that image of the tiny Shinigami infant—smiling, always smiling.

He headed to the railroad tracks as he angrily tossed thinking aside.

===

Metal roared and rumbled, the rusty wheels clattering like rapid gunfire as the soot-black locomotive thundered by in the opposite direction and Heero Yuy trudged angrily along the tracks of his static train. Fire simmered in his blue eyes, shooting sparks at nothing in particular as his thoughts sparked the flames. His anger choked his chest and blurred his lucid thoughts, mixed with this underlying sickened sensation. Gripping his backpack strap violently, he walked in defiance along the metal tracks, headed for the next station. He couldn't stand being in this town anymore so he'd started out on foot instead of waiting for that infuriating train. He absently kicked the flinty blue rocks scattered along the rails, relishing slightly in the violent way they scattered and struck the tracks.

After a few moments, the stinging of the sun beating down on his neck waned and he shrugged his coat on tighter—it became unusually breezy and cold. He took a second to realize something was wrong, when he glanced up at the sky and saw it was swallowed in an abrupt black swirling cloud.

And something shadowy rose up from the ground a hundred meters or so away from him, looming silently like the silhouette of a cloaked man. Heero stopped and looked ahead while his sense of danger planted his feet to the ground. With a sense of dread, as well, he pieced together the image of the bustling crowd and the assorted shrieks and law enforcement vehicles to come to the conclusion there had been a bloody assault in this sleepy town, and that he now confronted that murderer. Unarmed except for the adrealine already pusling through him.

Like a sick western high noon, the shadowy figure hovered unmoving as well.

And as the sky darkened and swirled darkly, something icy filled the mortal Heero Yuy's stomach. The distant shadow of a thing slowly reared its cryptic black head and hissed in a ragged pattern, almost as if snickering. It definitely didn't seem of human origin. The darkness parted like lips to reveal dripping, lethally serrated teeth that grinned hungrily at him and him alone. It definitely wasn't human.

Heero Yuy suddenly wished he'd listened.

===

[1] Hisa-me = Female demons of death in the Japanese underworld.

[2] The Japanese term for Master, or Husband—Shini's gonna be using it a lot. He speaks a variety of languages, just not above a young child's level. Also uses _Aruji_ or _Époux_, which all mean Husband, or the more direct term my husband', _Otto_.

[[[[A/N]]]]

I'd like to thank everyone who supported me and told me I'd get over that 6-th Chapter bump—now I have his overwhelming urge to write, but I'm writing so much so quickly I'm sucking the creativity well dry. Give me a while to recover, and I'll continue. I apologize if Shini is a little crybaby to anyone and I understand—I don't always want him to cry—but it won't stay that way forever. I promise. Be patient, and thank you so much!


	6. The Things that Go Bump in the Night

Chapter 6

The Things that Go Bump in the Night

While his reluctant husband stepped onto the railroad tracks and slowly came to discover a creature not of his Earth hunting him, Shini, however, was having a better time. Oblivious in dreams, the Angel of Death still remained upon his perch on the lightning-hollowed tree where he'd cried himself to sleep the night before. His back pressed against the trunk while the rest of him stretched out like a lazy cat, robes flapping gently in the wind, one exposed leg hanging off into space and twitching ever so often while he dreamt. A single black wing fluttered as it was extended off to the side to subconsciously catch the sunlight. The tangled tresses of brown hair glimmered in the sun where it wasn't littered with dry leaves and twigs.

Overhead, the squawking caws of the crows overhead gradually grew louder as the murder of obnoxious birds settled in the living branches beside the Shinigami's tree. They carefully watched the sleeping creature, who was content to doze, seemingly without a care in the world. The birds were not as intelligent nor cynical as a human, but they trusted their instincts enough to realize that it was Death lounging in the old tree and carefully hopped closer, branch from branch.

Crows did not fear death—they were cleverer than the clumsy dogs that sometimes chased them for sport, they were more bad-tempered than the hawks who swooped at their young, and they were sure that they were smarter than the humans were. After all, who better to follow if you were looking for dead meat to pick at than Death itself?

So, as the murder of crows settled in the trees surrounding around the Shinigami, a few bobbed excitedly on their branches and squawked loudly. They were hungry and hoped they could prod Death into creating some fresh meat for them {a free meal, in essence}. But they were also smart enough not to provoke Death, either, and held their ground and waited for it to awake.

And they would have waited for a long time, had one of them not spotted the garnet glittering in the sunlight. Shini loved to sleep, since it was often the only thing to do when spending centuries in Hell, and he probably could have dreamed there until Heero's lifespan would have elapsed and faded naturally, until he became a Rip Van Wrinkle and grew old in his sleep. But one of the crows spotted the dark red garnet that was clasped at the front of Shini's black silk robes, rimmed in a supernatural shade of golden silver only found in a dank, bottomless pit in Hell, and swooped in for a better look.

Shini mumbled something Latin in his sleep and shifted his head, allowing the drool to drip in a new direction. He barely registered the lightweight as the bird landed on his torso, glancing about warily. The glistening black talons of the crow scratched Shini's bare belly as it waddled toward his robes and a ticklish smile pulled at his face in his sleep. A sleepy hand came up to bat at the source of the tickling and the crow squawked and flapped away quickly. Defeated for the moment, it circled in the air over the Shinigami.

Another crow also decided to try his luck at taking the shining thing. He also landed on Shini's bare skin, but this time on the arm draped over his stomach. This crow waddled a bit further before the Death began to giggle in his sleep again and swatted dreamily at the bird. This one, however, did not join the increasing number of crows circling impatiently above, but simply popped into the air and waited for the hand to drop. When it did, he landed again and promptly began jabbing at the garnet with his beak. He hoped to steal it for his nest and impress his squawking wife.

Shini yawned quietly as a dry leave in his bangs twitched in the wind and tickled his nose. He swatted it away sleepily then rolled onto his back before he started to slip off the branch. He was somewhere between waking and sleep and dreamily smacked his lips at the flavored-ambrosia he'd been fantasizing about—the lemon kind, that Iria had only bought for him on his birthdays. Shini eventually began to wake and opened his eyes without any kind of hurry at all. So far, he believed he would wake to the scent of misery wafting in through his bedroom window, as it was on in the wall of the hole leading to Tartarus where men such as Sisyphus and Tantalus remained in eternal punishment. It was actually quite nice—he never had any Purgatory-Gnomes pillaging his room.

As the half-lidded violet pools stared skyward, he noticed dim black shadows circling in and out above him, making loud squawks every in a horrible chorus of the shadow before it.

Shini quickly realized that he was not in his bed in Hell—he was on Earth—and that he had no idea what was flying above him, or what the black thing on his hip was as he sat up and blinked rapidly at the alien.

The crow quickly whipped his head about and blinked at Death delicately with one glossy brown eye. Shini also looked warily in return at the harmless bird, and promptly shrieked as a jealous crow swooped down and began quarreling loudly with it, flapping wings and clawing feet. He lost his balance for a second, jerked to try and compensate, and burned his eyes as he accidentally looked directly into the Earthen Sun. The crows fell away, complaining loudly as Death yelped and tumbled off the branch.

Being a winged creature, Shini automatically tried to open his wings to catch him, but he was unprepared for the ground to rush up so quickly. He folded the wing facing the ground to his shoulder to protect it and fell into the steeping black oil puddle beneath the tree with a mucky _splat!_

Shini sat up, spitting out the acidic black sludge, and looking sharply up at the annoying creatures. In the morning, after just waking, he always tended to be a little hotheaded like his mother and not as sensitive or cautious as he usually was. The Angel of Death snapped, "Nasty mean things! Get way!" and pounded a fist into the shallow sludge pond. The liquid, with its consistency of oil and sinister smell, didn't seem to hurt Shini any, though any mortal creature happening to stumble across it would soon be absent a few dissolving limps.

The black stuff he splashed splattered across his nose and he looked down at it. "Mmmmm?" he mumbled to himself curiously, rubbing his nose on the back of his wrist. "_Nanjasorya_? [1]" He lifted his smudged wrist up and sniffed it cautiously, then winced and pulled back with his tongue gently bitten between his teeth, making a sound near to "Bleh!"

Shini scampered out of the pool and flicked off the beads of pitch-black, bubbling oil. He cried out, as he pulled back a lip in disgust, flicking the liquid off him as best he could. "Yuck! _Shuumi_!" the Angel of Death groaned, as he couldn't escape the stench that lingered around him from the muck. "_Gerogero_!" He whined, quickly realizing the goop was also dripping from his robes and itching between his Angelic black feathers.

The Angel of Death sprung up and squinted his eyes overly tight, like how children exaggerate their actions, and began to shake his wings like a soaking dog. The noxious-smelling black oil splattered on the nearby trees and sent any animals close enough to get a whiff quickly in the other direction. Shini whined in complaint as he settled and glanced over his shoulder at his precious feathers, pouting when he saw what a state they were in.

"Dirty, yucky, bad! _So_ gross!" The Angel of Death grumbled unhappily. "Shini has to clean his wings all over again! And he just cleaned them yesterday!" Using a hand to swat at them, he pawed at the stubborn spots of putrid oil. He frowned, after it didn't quite work, and began digging through the back of his robes and pulled out his tail, which had remained hidden. It was dripping the black gunk and he shook it out thoroughly.

Something hissed from within the bubbling pool a second later and Shini whipped around and looked down. Automatically, he searched for danger. However, the pool hissed again as a large, filthy black bubble rose to the surface and popped nosily.

Shini's face screwed up in a morbid curiosity and he swept his silken robes back to keep them clean as he crouched beside the acidic black goop. Being highly acquainted with demons and other dark, unhappy things, the Shinigami slowly overcame his repulsion with the stench to investigate the pool further. It stunk of more of brimstone than anything on Earth did, and he leaned closer, until his nose was hovering inches above the surface. The shadows of the trees overhead colored the pool a flat black sheen, punctured only by the occasional hissing bubble or two.

He vaguely remembered his mother saying something about crying too much, as she would cradle him at her side and rub his puffy red face with the fuzzy leaves of the green velvet plants that grew in Valentine, where he loved to spend his afternoons with her. She said that it was bad for everyone, cause no one wants to cry forever! Shini tilted his head curiously and sniffed again.

"_Nani_—" the Shinigami started to whisper to himself. At that moment his feet, still slippery from the muck, lost their traction on the ground and his head plunged straight into the foul stuff. Squealing out between his teeth, the Angel of Death scampered back up once his balance returned. He whined as he clawed and shook his head until he'd gotten most of the Darkness oil out of his bangs. He frowned, as the horrible smell once again assaulted his senses, and he pouted and stared at the pool. As the Shinigami looked up, he noticed a gleaming black slime trail leading out from the pool. And a distinct stench of hatred oozing from it.

Shini knew that smell. That revolting mixture of simmering grudges dashed with bloodletting spite, and finally topped off with the perfume of Death. He didn't remember the name of the creature that created that smell, he only knew that it was not good. A twisting sensation in his stomach formed as he saw that the slime trail wove toward the road and the distant scent of a human city.

He thought of his husband, and began to lope toward the smell of blacktop that would lead him to the road. His wings, unluckily, were still laced with Darkness oil and nearly glued together, so he raced there with his two human feet.

===

Heero grimaced silently at the creature—the unhuman thing—until he felt he was going to be sick. He couldn't let it shine through, though, that he felt every living atom in him beg to bolt when he watched the thing bare its teeth. It was bragging, sneering at him, almost.

Overhead, like someone had spilled a vat of witch's brew across the sky, an unnatural black cloud cover that didn't seem like it could be broken. Not even by Zeus's thunderbolts. The shadows spread out until everything seemed a misty gray, except for the black thing snarling expectedly at Heero. It was deathly black, misty and billowing in the breeze, like it was made of nothing.

In all his years spent growing up young on a notoriously rowdy military base, he'd learned to recognize threats and brace himself for him, but a split second after he managed to set his feet in a semi-defensive stance, the thing barreled down at him. He had no time to prepare.

The hundred or so meters between them were gone instantly. The snarling shadow leapt at Heero and moved so fast that it twirled like a vicious drill when it swooped in at the mortal's chest, and didn't give him anytime to think about what had just happened. Instant pain struck his chest, as the monster's teeth gnashed and drew blood. It felt like he'd been trapped beneath an angry jackhammer, the pain coming in sharp, merciless bursts.

Heero screamed gruffly, and knew he couldn't physically stand up to this unearthly thing. He pushed all of his weight against the onslaught of teeth and ignored the mounting pain, but it still shoved him back like a paper doll. Out of pure instinct to live, he flung his arms out and into the swarming Darkness chewing for his heart. The monster was still twirling as it slashed skin and struck for bone when Heero's hands went through it and managed to find something solid in the dark mists. It was enough for him to shift the teeth away from his bleeding chest and divert the whirling shadow. It emitted a bone-curling shriek of anger and crashed into the gravel around the rails and bounced once or twice. It disappeared into the trees just beyond the tracks and quieted.

Panting, he watched it go for a few seconds. Another brush with Death. How many of those did he need in one day? He thought hazily.

When he suddenly gasped for air, the mortal Heero Yuy then realized just how much he'd been hurt. The monster's dripping teeth had lacerated the skin over his sternum and through the blood seeping through he suspected the white to be bone. However, the pain didn't linger skin-deep. It throbbed through him, making him feel as if stakes had been pounded into each ventricle of his heart. The combined shock of sudden blood loss and the pain caused him to loose his balance and fall to his knees on the flinty blue gravel.

Heero struggled to fill his aching chest for a second and he stared at the ground as he waited. He tried to piece together what had just attacked him, as blood slowly seeped between his fingers, and winced when he lifted his hand away from his chest. However, he couldn't scowl at his wounds for long because that same horrible, hateful sound came from the thicket of trees beyond the railroad tracks and the branches rustle dangerously.

Staggering heavily as he moved but healthy and desperate enough to run, Heero bolted back toward the train station. The gravel shifted beneath his feet but didn't manage to slow him down. The shadowed sun still refused to glimmer through, painting everything dark and sinister as he ran. He wasn't frightened of that—only the demonic creature who had tried to crush his chest with its teeth.

The sun still hadn't escaped its cloudy prison when he climbed onto the wooden platform, struggling up when the exertion on his arms aggravated the bleeding round wound on his chest. Heero panted unevenly and pulled himself to his feet, looking up to see the man in the ticket booth from last night staring at him, flat ashen white.

The Japanese man whirled his head around in time to see the black shadow arching violently down at him, teeth whirling and gnashing, screeching angrily. Luckily, the bleeding hadn't slowed his hair-trigger reflexes and he ducked in time not to be instantly beheaded by the demonic teeth. The breeze from the killing shadow as it crashed into the brick wall of the station ruffled his disheveled hair.

"Oh my god—! " the ticket seller could be heard exclaiming, as dust and brick shrapnel rained down. The shadow snarled in a rage, thrashing wildly, it's back end flapping like a fish stranded out of water and strangling for air. The sound of brick being crushed between its teeth could be heard as it screamed and shrieked inhumanly, trying to dislodge itself.

The ticket seller swallowed dryly as he leaned forward to see the Darkness thrashing and screaming in a horrific devilish key, only a foot from his window and the frail glass that separated him from the outside. A claw formed out of the mist and even pushed against the wall. Still, it couldn't free itself.

Mindless with fright, he glanced over where the aloof Asian man had once stood. The only evidence that Heero Yuy had been there only a moment ago were the thin stains of blood on the floorboards of the platform.

===

[1] Ooh, be prepared, because Shini favors his Japanese and his Latin a lot in the beginning—that means many a footnote for those of you not able to speak Japanese. Well, neither do I, but I'm determined to scrape up a few good translators online. Besides, I think it's cute—no, that word's used up. It's... endearing!

_Nanjasorya_ = What's this? (Col) I have no idea what that connotation means, but I guess it's important. Heh.

_Shuumi_ = Bad smell!

_Gerogero_ = Gross me out! It's an Osaka slang phrase. Adorable, in my opinion.

[[[A/N]]]

I apologize for the relatively short chapter. It's not that I was slacking off and deciding to just cut it short, there're certain things I want to go into the next chapter together, and I didn't think I could fill out the end of this one without adding something unwanted to the plot. Yuck, I would hate to have loopholes already. Oh well. Thank you all who encouraged me, again, because now I'm practically flying over that 6-th Chapter Bump. I especially want to thank Shui. As much as every writer enjoys praising reviews, I love to have people disagree or challenge me. And Shui, I thank you so much. I hadn't even considered what Heero's reaction would be if he were married to a person with the mind of a child. Now I have to consider it, and I will definitely explore it. Not that I'm complaining, I'm so grateful for the idea! So I challenge others to challenge me--it works out better for everyone. I have more ideas and the readers get to have input. Thank you and thank you again {Jesus, redundant much?} and enjoy your father's day weekend!


	7. The Nightmare of Nightmares

Chapter 7

The Nightmare of Nightmares

The pain was sickening, but Heero knew better than to stumble down and nurse his wounds. Whatever had hunted him down was definitely not subject to human tiring. There was a certain dread in his stomach that assured him that the shadowy predator had only one goal in mind when it gnashed its teeth against his ribs, digging and bloodthirsty for what pounded beneath them. While the sun sizzled quietly overhead, the injured man staggered across the streets, dodging citizens and unholy creatures alike. He ran through the alleyways and thoroughly examined each road before going across for the next alley.

Putting his palm tightly against the skin-deep gash, even though blood trails coursed through his fingers, seemed to soothe some of the throbbing pain. But he knew it was no substitute. It would be pretty sickening to die of blood loss before that thing could come and find him. He wondered if it would laugh at him if he did happen to pass out, before he could find a safe place to hide himself.

Heero didn't want to pick just any place—he knew better than to let the thing chasing him be seen by other people, or worse yet, corner him in a room with other people who could be injured or killed. He'd seen what it had done before and hoped that it wouldn't attack any others. It was sick, to wish for something like that fanged shadow to chase him, but he didn't want anybody else getting hurt.

He sprinted through a particularly grungy alleyway and the walls were crisscrossed with fire escapes and graffiti. Also, the dull ache in his chest was beginning to become sharp stabs and his legs began to slow without his permission. Being in good shape didn't help much. He felt like he was bleeding so much, even though there were only a few red lines on his hand. Heero Yuy didn't feel like he would make it further than a few more before he was forced to collapse and let come what may when he passed the bundle hunched against the wall. He looked over when the movement of a ratty blanket caught his attention. A sleeping vagabond huddled against the brick wall, just below the tangled neon letters A.F.C. and an unfinished caption pointing to it.

Of course. In his hurry, he'd failed to see the makeshift cardboard homes scattered along the walls of the alley. At first, Heero was about to brush off the fact they were there, but the image of a bloodthirsty, inhuman thing jogged his memory. It would no doubt follow him—it was no doubt _following_ him, right now, no telling how far away—and they would be in danger. Luckily, he couldn't see any others.

Just the man snoring against the wall, chest rising and falling beneath a ratty blanket.

Heero slowed and stopped in the middle of the alley, aligned directly with the vagabond. When he stopped, his body forced him to bend over and support himself with one hand on a knee and the other pressed to the bleeding flesh wound on his chest. He was also panting, which surprised him—he was sure he was stronger than that, but the pain seemed to overwhelm him.

He gritted his teeth and managed to snap out at the homeless man, though his chest ached to do so. "Hey...Hey, you!"

The man simply grumbled irritably as he was called to, probably peering out through the hole in the blanket near to his face. If he did, he obviously didn't want the attention of some punk yelling at him while he tried to sleep. And with the way Heero was holding his chest, he wouldn't notice that that same punk was bleeding.

Heero frowned and straightened up. "Listen to me. I'm warning you to get the hell out of here—"

The man finally didn't seem to ignore the Asian man anymore and a grungy, stubbled face popped out of the blanket like a disgruntled gopher and made a sour expression at him, squinting as his nearsighted vision adjusted through the crooked glasses on his nose. There were spider webs of cracks near the rims and duct tape and a shoelace were wrapped over his nose, keeping them barely together. He pulled his arm out of the blanket to gesture at the kid standing in the alley.

"Naw," he said, in a surprisingly civilized tone, "it's you that better get outta here and leave me alone. I don't want no trouble, and if you're looking for it, I'll make sure that you get some. Why don't you leave us in peace, huh? We're just trying to—"

Heero frowned again, and in the middle of the homeless man's words, he glanced up to the sky. As he had run, the menacing clouds had eventually faded off and let sunshine back in, though the rest of the citizens didn't seem to notice that it had ever been gone. Now there were traces of blue-black inching toward the sun. He whipped his head back around and yelled, interrupting the vagabond.

"You're going to get yourself killed if you don't find somewhere to hide!"

"What, are _you_ the murderer?" he mocked unhappily, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. "Just leave me alone."

Heero looked tensely over his shoulder, making sure nothing was entering the other end of the alley, and looked again at the sky, just to make sure. Then spotted a can on the blacktop and kicked it at the man, who had curled up to sleep again. It struck him, and after the vagabond yelled out in surprise and frustration, Heero warned him lowly, "Fine, if you want to end up dead, then that's not my fault."

He growled and began running again, trying in vain to step over a puddle in his way. He realized, with irony, how difficult it was to convince some very stubborn people of what was in their best interest. He knew now what Iria had been dealing with, and made a comment to himself to make sure to piss her off even more if he ever saw her again. He was through with patience for a long time.

===

When Shini reached the base of the hill where the town was located, with the forest looming at the top and looking down darkly, he saw the storm clouds gathering to block out the light of the Earthen sun.

"_Animus ultionis_," the Angel of Death whispered to himself, gaping up at the dark shadows that were threatening to swallow up the light, at the Darkness that hovered in the sky. A shiver ran through him and his wings fluttered and huddled tightly to his bare back, feathers ruffled. He recognized the sensation in dread as he remembered the death of his sister, the Fifth Daughter of Shinigami.

It had been accidental. He hadn't meant it—he never meant to kill anything. Iria had assured him, after she had found him crying but unharmed in Hades arms. That was after he had first encountered what his mother and the God of the Underworld had called an _animus ultionis_, or a vengeance spirit.

The Fifth Daughter had never been overly fond of her younger brother Shini while she had been alive, mostly because she had no true emotions or mercy in her beating heart, but also because she was a working Shinigami, one who constantly went about harvesting souls as Hades instructed them to. Naturally, with all the death in the world, it was a very involving task. The only reason his sister had come to see him, while he was still small and living with Iria in Hell, was because she was waiting for Hades to bring her the vile of fleas that would disclose the Bubonic Plague on primitive Europe. But he was happy that she was there, whatever the reason. He had held the vile, pressed his nose to the thick, red-tinged glass, and watched the insects swarm in the thousands in a container no bigger than a harmless rose bud.

Of course, being an Angel of Death, pestilence was one of his favorite playthings and seemed harmless to him. When Shini squealed in delight at the Deathly thing, the Fifth Daughter had smiled as well, if only mimicking his gesture to keep him appeased. Draped in blood red and brown robes, her long black hair had been tied back with a band of wyvern flesh and a necklace of Kappa teeth hung around her neck, still decorated with blood of unsuspecting prehistoric Japanese men. [1]

While Shini admired the bottled plague, with Satan looking curiously over his friend's shoulder, the Fifth Daughter was conversing with the Lord of the Underworld, Hades, about her newest assignment. It was much like a human version of a holiday gathering, where the mischievous children played on the floor while the adults talked amongst them, barely paying the younger ones any mind. Even if the Fifth Daughter had paid attention to her ecstatic younger brother, it wouldn't have prevented her destruction.

Shini stroked the panes of the bottle vile, in awe of the intricate bone carvings shaped as tiny human men clawing as Death seemed to take them, and accidentally pricked his finger on a fang-shaped prong. He whined loudly and let the plague clatter to the ground {luckily not shattering} and immediately began nursing his pricked finger and stuck it in his mouth as violet-colored blood seeped out.

Satan laughed and patted him teasingly on the shoulder.

However, it wasn't a simple cut, as they would soon discover. Hades was the first to sense the initial surge of Darkness, spurred violently by Shini's often uncontrollable emotions and sprung from his untapped well of Deathly power. With his early warning, he was able to twist way from the abrupt explosion of black fire that came from Shini's aura and ended up slicing clean through the Fifth Daughter of Shinigami and leaving her in a bloody mass of Darkness oil and sizzling body parts. Her necklace singed and crumbled into ashes.

And from that pool of blood and Darkness oil—some of the raw material that went into an Angel of Death—came a vengeance spirit.

Vengeance spirits were the raw remains of rage and bitterness that leaked from a soul once it had died. Especially violent or untimely deaths, such as murders or unthinkable accidents, which would often jar the spirit free and send it immediately after the one who had caused the death, or any one close enough to witness it. They took on the intent of the souls' strongest emotion at the moment of death and often sought revenge. For humans, the spirits usually are only strong enough to cause nightmares or transparent ghosts. For Angels of Death, they could rise out of any considerable amount of Darkness oil that was bled or, in Shini's case, cried out. And in the case of Shinigami's accidentally slaughtered sister, this vengeance spirit looked only to kill, looked to finish the unfinished business her corpse now left behind.

Shini was horrified that he had unwittingly let his powers out of control and destroyed his sister, but he was equally terrified by the black shadow that lifted from the sludge and hissed at him, spitting dripping oil away to reveal several rows of teeth. It was immense, on top of that, and more than large enough to swallow the tiny God of Death in a single mouthful. Satan scattered back from Shini and snapped at him to move when the younger one froze in terror.

Before anything could get out of hand, though, it was stopped. Hades stepped in and destroyed the spirit before the shadow could lung and quench its bloodthirsty revenge, and he carried the trembling Angel of Death back to his mother.

Shini swallowed dryly, watching the dark clouds swirl silently around the sun, ready to consume.

===

Heero slowed to a stop in order to catch his breath, once again bent over and supporting himself with his hand on his knee and the other still at his chest, before he noticed the six or seven foot chain-link fence looming in the alleyway ahead. The ache in his chest diminished some, though the pain still wasn't unnoticeable and an acute headache had sunk its teeth into him. Speaking of teeth, the mortal Japanese man thought dreadfully, where was that creature. Still panting from exertion, he slowly twisted his head about and felt his heart fill with ice when the distant scream of one headstrong vagabond echoed down the empty grey streets and solidifying that stake of fear in his heart.

It had been slowly taking shape throughout the past few days, beginning with the sinister dreams of ghostly children, gaining momentum with the debut of the Shinigami, and finally filling him with genuine panic-inducing fear. Heero swallowed dryly, pinpointing the looming shape of the creature down two streets down.

From his standpoint, he couldn't make out what the shadow was doing, but he could imagine it, as the scream came once and was followed by silence. The dark figure shifted and seemingly looked straight through him, examining his spirit, marking him as helpless prey to be cut down. He could almost see the wicked-toothed smile it had given him just before happy chewing at the skin on his chest.

The Japanese man clenched a hand into a fist at his hip that had been quivering. With another of his severe frowns, the mortal loped into the alley, pass the rusting hulks of junked cars. Each hollowed out frame crawled of rust and dilapidated parts scattered about them like rejected organs.

The rusted beams and steel frames were all that were left of a few of them, but at the very back of the alleyway turned junk lot sat a semi-decent silver towncar on blocks where it's wheels were missing, the half-hinged bumper sitting about a foot or so from the fence. He knew he had little time and he knew that the shadow had seen him and that he didn't anyone else to get hurt if it could be helped, so he stopped behind the car and collapsed down, with his back pressed against the wall, hidden behind the junked car. The bumper dug into his side at his right, while the metal chain-link bit at his left.

Heero allowed himself a moment's time to catch his breath, letting his neck go loose and setting his head against the brick wall with an exhausted thud.

The blood seeping from the gash in the center of his chest, just above a hammering heart, had ebbed a little. Only when he moved unexpectedly did it begin to bleed again. Now that he was momentarily hidden from his hunter, the Japanese man gingerly began examining the wound. The creature's teeth had easily cut through his shirt, leaving a ragged v-cut that extended nearly to his navel, revealing the luckily shallow cuts inflicted. Heero reached up to pull his jacket around him to keep the cold air off his skin when something ran through him.

Like some bass drum of Hell sounding there was a sudden twinge in the air that went through Heero Yuy as well and forced him to focus on the haze of black at the opening of the alley.

Heero froze up, staring at the mist of Darkness the came off the shadowy creature. He wouldn't have even breathed if he thought it could have helped him. He had experienced this thing's unearthly speed before. He knew it was probably only a matter of time.

The creature didn't pounce though. As if it could read his thoughts, the shadow known as a vengeance spirit, unbeknownst to it's victim, inched toward the silver town car behind which sat a mortal Heero Yuy, bleeding and gritting his teeth to muffle his breathing. It came closer, sniffing the air, relishing in the fear the human exuded.

It was possibly the stupidest thing to have noticed at the moment in time, while he was struggling with what to do as a demonic creature slunk ever closer, but Heero saw the pool of motor oil beneath the engine, killing the sparse grass around it. The junked car's punctured oil tank dripped steadily, leaking motor oil, not the more sinister kind sprung from pure Darkness. It seeped from a corroded hole in the tangle of metal beneath the junked car. Heero clenched his teeth together nervously as his eyes darted back and forth from the puddle of motor oil and the dark shadow creeping closer.

The vengeance spirit sniffed him out effortlessly, Heero could tell. The black mist didn't hesitate with nosing through any of the other junked cars as it came closer, footless, like a hunting ghost. Slowly, deliberately, it drifted closer, drawing out the moments before it would pounce into an agonizing wait.

Heero hissed silently through gritted teeth. Beneath the rusted hulk of the towncar he could see the mist of Darkness hovering just beyond the front left tire, waiting viciously in wait.

He glanced at the motor oil pooled below the engine one last time before he quietly began reaching for his pocket. Buried among lint and crumpled and forgotten receipts lay his old black and red-checkered matchbook, received somewhere in a smoky bar from a smiling smoker in a moment of charity years ago. He remembered it vaguely, watching the man laugh after taking a fresh drag and wondering how long that smile would stay while he stayed on a diet of three packs a day. Still scowling up frequently at the approaching killer, Heero thumbed it open and resisted the urge to curse out loud.

There were only three left.

Growling silently, Heero whipped out the first black-capped match and sharply cut it across the grain.

The vengeance spirit's formless shadow whipped what would have been it's head toward the minute noise of the worn match scratching uselessly. It quickened ever so slightly, curling back Darkness to hungrily bare a fang or two as it stalked carefully around the car. A measly three or four feet separated predator from prey as Heero gritted his teeth, paled, and angrily tossed the obsolete match to the dirt and whipped out the second. Brick dug into his back he was pressing against it so hard, attempting to duck down further to avoid being seen.

The Japanese man glared at the second match, willing it to work as he again cut it against the grain. The tiny scratching noise it created momentarily sparked into a hissing sound of flame, but crackled lifelessly out. There was even a hint of smoke teasing him, mocking him with how easily it disappeared without a hint of flame. Heero had to grit his fist painfully just not to make a noise and prematurely do him in. Wanting to curse, he noticed that the grain had been worn down to a smooth red band.

There was only one left, as the sound of saliva dripping off teeth above a low hissing noise could be heard just around the hulk of the car, accompanied by a haze of black.

Heero again whipped out a match, and gritted his teeth tight enough to nearly burst one of them wide open as he faced his options. Death grinned at him the moment, and it didn't involve a pair of innocent eyes or a one-toothed smile, either.

The vengeance spirit smirked to itself as it began to expose all of its teeth and coiled up in preparation of the last attack. It could practically taste the fear from the mortal solidifying in its mouth, his rib cage crumpling deliciously and his very heart spurting once last, frantic time within its jaws.

Heero Yuy looked up one last time as the Darkness mist began to round the half-jointed back bumper, and growled loudly as he tried desperately to light the match. He struck it violently against the cement block propping the car's rear right tire up as instinct overcame him. For an eternal second, the black cap of the match remained painfully static. His heart sunk dreadfully until that eternity ended and a flame crawled out with a crisp little spark.

The vengeance spirit lunged violently at him as the match was struck and Heero tossed the little flame beneath the car before he would be struck.

When the car's underbelly quickly burst up in flame, the spirit screeched something awful and went wheeling back in brainless fright from the burst of fire the match and motor oil spat out. Lines of flame ran out, hungrily chewing up the dying grass scattered around the junked car in glowing lines and patches. The fire was equally ravenous as the spirit that had hunted him, and began licking at the rubber tires and metal innards of the car—itching to create more mischief, it seemed.

Heero spun to the side quickly, ignoring the pain from jabbing his back into the cement block he had sparked a moment of salvation on, and lashed out at the chain link fence. The interwoven metal was jagged, biting into his skin painfully, but he really didn't care at that point in time. He managed to get his feet into the fence and get up a few feet a frenetic pace before something angrily knocked him down like an abused rag doll.

The hellish screech of the _animus ultionis _filled his ears while pain filled out his back through his head as he struck the ground. Lying dazed and in pain, Heero was vaguely aware of the killer haze snarling above him and the sensation of saliva dripping on his face. He opened his eyes only to find his vision distorted horribly and filled with only the sight of black. It was like watching a poorly taped home video that wouldn't focus no matter how long you watched and waited.

A heavy, claw-like hand roughly grabbed his face, covering nearly the entire thing in a bitter-tasting, ethereal substance, and ripped his head off the ground. With another screech, the vengeance spirit lifted and slammed Heero's head violently back to the dirt, rattling his brain.

He moaned, vaguely aware that he was in pain and in practically in Death's jaws as his head ached and spun without his permission. The same, stinging sensation that remained in the skin of face after the spirit removed it's claw-hand pressed on his arms and chest, pinning him down needlessly. He was too dazed to remember he even existed after such a rattling blow to the head. A line of blood leaked from his skin just below his hairline where a claw had caught him. Even the intolerable hissing noise faded into the haze as the spirit made a horrible croaking noise of victory, rearing its shapeless neck to bite through the mortal's fragile chest.

However, Shinigami wasn't too happy with that idea.

"_Licentia meus maritus unus! Diabolus!_" [2] the Angel of Death snarled loudly, the fast-spoken Latin slurring in his fury so that it sounded more like the growling voice of the _animus ultionis_ than the warm one of the son of Aphrodite. Gripping the rim of the building and glaring down at the spirit currently attacking the unconscious human, Shini's normally affectionate face was twisted and severe. Severe beyond forgiveness. He growled lowly and his black wings straightened stiffly, bristling almost, as the spirit turned to glance at the God of Death.

"Stop it!" Shini barked furiously when it turned its head away defiantly and poised itself to finish the man lying below him. Angry lines filled his face and despite the fact he did not have fangs, he bore his teeth anyway. He looked babyish in comparison to the angry rows of teeth and challenging screech he received from the vengeance spirit as it lifted his head away from the prey, obviously angered to be distracted from a kill. Unknowingly, the _animus ultionis_ issued a challenge to its creator.

"_Stop it_!" Shini screamed down from his perch, his anger overtaking him. Like a spark, an unseen aura began burning around him and his long, gnarled hair began to lift around his face.

The shadow hissed up violently at the Shinigami as the anger radiating from the young, overemotional Angel of Death grew so much that it drew the very Darkness from the earth below them. A black mist only a few shades darker than the spirit itself slowly seeped from the dirt and hovered a few inches off the ground. Taking out the Darkness left a ring of pure light glowing beneath the black haze, and it began clawing at the vengeance spirit. It hissed as it began being lifted off the ground, and the dazed body of one Heero Yuy hovered inches off the earth as well, his head lolling limply to the side.

Shini flared out his wings and dove, striking the spirit and clawing his fingers into the Darkness mist it was made off. In the hands of a God, it was solid enough to begin grappling with the _animus ultionis_, and it screamed and fought back, baring its teeth and lunging its neck at him. The two fighting bodies rolled and struck the ground heavily, still thrashing.

The Darkness summoned from the ground broke like a fine sheet and splashed against the brick walls once before dissipating.

Shini clawed angrily at the shapeless, snarling form as it surged beneath him and thrashed, trying to flip him over. In the dark mist, the teeth bore again and snapped repeated at the God of Death's face as it managed to dissipate through his grip and reform silently above him, sending a claw down to slash at the back of his head. The Shinigami yelped in surprise, but managed to jerk out of the way just a hair's width from being cut. The vengeance spirit lunged mercilessly at him, concerned less with pulling back and calculating an attack than just with quenching the blood-hungry rage that made up its entire existence.

The Shinigami's wings were what hindered him here, while the spirit lunged at him, snapping and flinging beads of saliva as he pounced. They were pinned painfully under him in awkward positions, preventing him from rolling out of the way of those jaws, which gnashed at him with piranha-like fury.

Shini squinted his eyes shut as he gripped his hands again around the creature's neck and used all of his strength just to keep the teeth from clamping down on him. For an instant, as the monster thrashed violently in his grip, one end whipping back and forth like an aggravated dragon and the fanged end trying to snap his neck in two, he thought about how reckless it was to throw himself into a fight, knowing he could not control hardly any of his Deathly powers yet.

Of course, he would rather be destroyed than stand by and watch another single living thing die because of him.

Heero's dazed body had fallen back to the dirt after the two had begun their temperamental tangle and moments later his hazy brain began to struggle to clear itself. The Japanese man let his head loll to the side and blinked blearily at the screeching and snapping flurry of one _animus ultionis_ and one God of Death struggling against each other. Heero groaned as he propped himself up on one arm and rubbed at his blurry eyes.

The vengeance spirit lunged against the fists wrapped around its misty throat, surging forward to nick the bridge of the Shinigami's nose and send a line of blue-violet blood dripping toward his eye. He gasped quietly in surprise, and the creature wasted no time in lunging forward again, hoping to blind him and pushing him into the dirt with even more inhuman force. Shini squealed as the tides shifted and again a fang caught him; this time he instinctively jerked his head back and it sliced a thin scratch down his chin, inches from his throat.

Heero finally managed to regain his sight and his brain stopped ricocheting around the inside of his skull, and witnessed the vengeance spirit snapping at the Shinigami's throat and slowly drawing closer and closer. His fists were wrapped like death around the creature's apparently solid throat, but his arms were shuddering, his wings were fluttering as they were trapped under his body, feathers scattered everywhere, and a look of exhaustion was washing over him.

He blinked again. He hadn't even realized that the black-winged man was his arranged husband for a second, and after the first realization hit his rattle brain, he realized that he was fighting for his sake. That dread seething in his stomach twisted tightly. And for once, he had to admit it. He didn't know what to do.

Shini gritted his teeth tightly and felt an unbidden whimper spill from his mouth as his own blood began to spill into his eye. Despite who he was, there was no sidestepping the fact he as unarmed as a human being without any weapons or Deathly powers to defend him. He didn't have the strength to kill something like an _animus ultionis_ with his bare hands, he knew. The said killer again surged forward, teeth bared.

This time, the wicked teeth smirked at him and from the mist formed a reptilian claw that launched itself at the Shinigami's face and narrowly missed, grabbing a fistful of dirt instead. Shini slowly became so frustrated with the creature snarling at him and dousing him with the saliva dripping from his fangs that he leaned back and sharply kicked both legs beneath the vengeance spirit. His toes caught a solid part of the misty creature and Shini launched it off him with an angry kick, the _animus ultionis_ screeching unhappily.

Heero watched, still panting, as it struck the chain-link fence. And continued through it, in neatly sliced pieces. Whatever had been solid in that toothed black haze of a monster was cut cleanly from the sheer force that it had been hurled at the fence. The mist dissolved quickly with a flurry of sizzling, popping noises, while a stained pile of teeth clattered to the ground. There were a few wet noises as bits of human hearts fell to the ground as well, consumed by the animus ultionis in its brainless thirst for revenge and completely doused in a thick puddle of Darkness oil.

Heero clamped a hand over his mouth while the arm supporting him buckled under him and he collapsed, catching himself only half-heartedly on an elbow. But slowly, he brought himself to stand, though he was slightly unsteady on his feet. The throbbing in his chest had returned, aggravated by adrenaline running through him. He groggily turned his head to see the Shinigami, bleeding from the chin and nose, staring at him silently.

Caked blotches of Darkness oil dotted his silk robes, scratched, nicked, and generally lacking the divine sheen they had displayed before. The same black liquid was matted between his long black feathers and knotted in his hair, gluing to the leaves scattered in it as well. For an instant, he seemed like a distorted Dionysus, with dried maple leaves woven in his hair, but the blood somehow stained that innocent image. The blue-violet blood, leaking down his face and leaving pale blue stains. Shini's eyes never left his face as he crept carefully over to the dazed mortal, almost as if trying not to startle a fawn.

Heero remained silent as the Angel of Death stopped only a few inches away from his face, and those ungodly eyes filled with an undeniable guilt. Shini looked down at the skin-deep teeth marks cut into his skin, just above his heart, and furrowed his eyebrows, biting his lip to choke back a sob. He dug his fingers into what was left of the mortal's shirt and bowed his head in shame, crying quietly into his chest.

Heero, overwhelmed with all that had happened already, simply let the Angel of Death cry and apprehensively put a hand on the back of his head a few seconds later.

As they stood there, bleeding in two different colors, Heero felt a strange, noiseless pulse run through the air, one that somehow sifted down into his bones. He lifted his head only to see a familiar white-robed, white-winged woman frowning down at the carnage, and darkly shaking her head.

"You have a talent for stirring up trouble, Heero Yuy, I'll give you that."

===

[1] Japanese vampire water spirits that would drown their victims before drinking their blood. Beside blood, their favorite food is supposedly cucumbers. Go figure.

[2] "Leave my husband alone! Devil!"

[[[A/N]]]

I officially hate scrounging for translations. At this point, it'd be simpler to take Latin for a year and just learn it myself. See, the only second language I've actually be able to learn is Spanish, but somehow that just doesn't fit Death's personality. Can anyone really see the Grim Reaper going, _Yo quiero Taco Bell, _and still striking fear into the heart of men? Not anywhere but Family Guy, I'll tell you that. Oh well. I apologize for any of you left waiting, chewing nails down to the quick {don't listen to the author's wishful thinking, if you ignore it, it'll probably go away} but this chapter took longer, and ended up much longer than I expected it to be. If I didn't figure out my Latin adjective use well enough, someone can correct me. Was I too predictable with this chapter? Did you all know he was going to come to the rescue, or were you just hoping it would happen? Aw, I don't care. I'm having fun. I also had fun picking out Shini's blood color. Red was just too human, I thought, because he already has a lot of human qualities.

I always write to music, so here's your first few tracks on the playlist. Hopefully they sort of pertain to the story.

"Shine" Collective Soul

"Voodoo" Godsmack

"My Lover's Box" Garbage

"Come to My Window" Melissa Etheridge

Thanks for waiting, for reading, for dancing in your underware late at night. :p


	8. The Street Without Time

Chapter 8

The Street Without Time

With a sigh, the winged woman known as Aphrodite observed the bloody carnage, and twisted her face apprehensively when it dawned upon her exactly what had been diced on the forceful trip through the chain-link fence. Tinges of disgust shown through, but she had dealt with many grisly details since the birth of her Deathly son. Dressed in a pristine white robe, the one she had slipped into while flying towards Valentine, the Goddess of Love strolled to a stop, a few feet separating her and one dazed mortal with an Angel of Death clinging to his chest.

Silent for a moment, she only opened her mouth to mutter, sounding almost despondent, and "I don't what I'm going to do with you anymore."

Heero bit his lip in uncertainty as he watched Iria look solemnly down at the carnage, a look so sadly intense it seemed she was pondering the complexities of life and coming up short. Meanwhile, as his attention was distracted, Shini had wrapped his arms tightly around his husband's rib cage. His sobs stilled for a few moments, punctuated by a few hiccups as gradually began to calm down from his guilty tears. He refused to lift his head from the human's chest so he inconspicuously wiped the blood on Heero's tattered shirt, with a absently comforting hand pressed to the back of his head. However, Heero hardly even noticed, too busy shooting ambiguous looks at Iria as she surveyed the damages done.

She had just shifted her attention from the melting carcass of the vengeance spirit when something nipped sharply at her feet. The Goddess of Love let out a low yelp and quickly sidestepped as a lick of fire extended out from the blazing car fire, and she angrily twitched her face at the flames. "Pesky stuff, fire. Especially on Earth," Iria groused, as her familiar enchanted wind was summoned to snuff out the stubborn flames. Once it had been reduced to much more obedient embers scattered around rusted mufflers, she passed a victorious smirk over to him.

Silver eyeshadow replaced the drastic red, making her seem even more like a grieving mother than before. "I don't know how all you mortals managed to deal with it. It's so unbehaved here. You think Prometheus could have at least taught the fire he brought some manners after he unleashed on Earth."

Heero unwittingly pressed Shini tighter to him as he scowled in usual fashion at his extravagantly beautiful and very irritable mother-in-law, ready for answers and demanding at least a few from her. "What exactly was that thing?"

"Always quick and to the point, Heero Yuy," Iria said, thinly masking a sigh and minor scowl in return. She folded her arms loosely and looked tired of everything that had happened in only a day and a half. "But if you have to know, before it was diced, it was what the Divine would call an _animus ultionis_."

"And what would a lowly mortal call it?" Heero asked pointedly.

"You would call it a ghost, a spirit, a specter. A nasty little campfire story that makes little boys pull the covers over their head," she explained dully. "Most of the time, your human ghosts are pushovers. Sure, they'll startle you if you can't really see them or sense them, like you mortals can't, but they're nothing compared to those of a Divine. Especially a God of Death as powerful as Shini."

Heero frowned darkly, only half-satisfied with the answer he received. "Why was it following me?"

Silver-highlighted blue eyes met his own sharply. "I should be asking you that, Heero Yuy. They spring forth from strong emotions and mindlessly enact revenge upon whatever comes in their way." Iria shifted her scowl down back toward the pool of blood and Darkness, steaming quietly through the metal chain-link fence. "And since this particular _animus ultionis_ went around consuming human hearts, it's safe to say that it was a vengeance spirit of heartbreak."

There was a certain poison in her last few words that left little to be assumed, as she stared back over at the roughed up mortal that stood with her son. Heero could only subconsciously grit his teeth in response.

In the sudden stillness of the air, her long, broad white wings brushed the ground behind her high heel clad feet, of a much wider wingspan and more streamlined than those of her son. Regal, almost, while Deathly black ones were more—apocalyptic. Iria turned away from the sight of all the carnage, finally satisfied with all that she had seen in a frustrated and very tried manner. Speaking of feathers, there were an array of black ones scattered on the ground where there had been a struggle between the god and violent spirit, and they scooted away on tiny little breezes as Iria walked over to the winged god and bleeding man, stopping half an arm's length from her Deathly son.

"Shinigami, come here," Iria said softly. A hand gently began to comb through the length of matted brown hair that lay neatly between each of his winged shoulder blades, picking out the scraps of dry, Earthen leaves and tiny sticky webs that had formed in his hair from the Darkness oil he'd fallen into earlier that morning. Heero was honestly surprised at how unabashedly maternal the often-domineering goddess turned once she began speaking to her son. Even her fiery eyes were strangely calm.

Shini sniffled quietly and obediently turned his head while Heero simply continued to scowl in her direction. However, a second later the arms left him and a strange sense of hurt filled him as the Angel of Death went to his mother instead, leaving him standing with a semi-surprised expression. As much as he resented the union, there was this strange twinge that went through him as the Shinigami left him so readily and was comforted by his mother. It wasn't anger, but then it wasn't quiet the relief he would have hoped for.

He was just so used to having to pry the Shinigami off him. Yeah, he thought dully. It was just a sudden change, and he had always resisted change.

After a motherly embrace, Iria began petting the side of her son's face, the top of his head only brushing her chin when he came close and let her begin to rub the dirt and blood off his cheek. "Now, let's get you cleaned up first," she said in a warm tone, offering a sweet little smile. Eventually, the guilty look began to disappear from the Shinigami's face, and hints of a smile shone through.

"That's better," Iria laughed. "I know you're not such a little sourpuss, so come on and show your husband some of those teeth." She lopsidedly pushed a corner of his lip up in a ragged smile, and he pulled away, resisting the urge to finish the rest of that smile beneath a distinct red color.

He rubbed at his face, seemingly trying to resist the comforting humor of his mother, and insisted in a whisper, "Come on, stop it. You're embarrassing Shinigami." For a second, his ungodly eyes flashed in the Japanese man's direction, and they left a burning sensation on Heero even after they pulled away

"Of course you're embarrassed. Anyone can see you're covered in blood!" Iria said with a laugh on the side. "And anyone would be embarrassed to look like that in public, I'm sure. Hold still, now, Shini. I'll clean it right up for you."

Iria ignored whatever muted protests her son gave as she presented a hand out of her robe and it hummed with some sort of energy, even taking on a dim golden haze. She gently restrained her son from backing away with a hand on his shoulder and began running her thumb along the cuts he had received. When it lifted, there wasn't a trace that there had ever been a wound, let alone dirt or blood. First she erased the nick across his nose with a complacent look across her face, and moved down to wipe away the pale blue stains the blood had left after dripping down his face.

Shini squeaked, "_Dame_!" in sudden protest and pulled his head away from his mother's hands, though still secured by her hand on his arm.

His wings flapped once as well, emanating a sticky nose as the Darkness oil caked into his feathers stretched. He somehow looked like a blackbird resisting his mother's worm, Heero thought, as he watched the display almost distantly, like it was some how just a movie.

"What now, Shini?" Iria asked impatiently, resting the golden healing hand jauntily on her hip.

The Angel of Death tugged his arm away from his mother and soon plastered on an adamant expression. "No," he insisted as he glanced over in Heero's direction and let his eyes fall weightily on the crimson red crisscross of cuts across his chest, almost as if he had killed him and ached to right it. "Heal him first, please."

Iria looked incredulously over to the bloody mortal with mouth agape almost ridiculously, displaying all of her pristinely white teeth in her shock. Pointedly angling herself, even her wings sharply flapped, and she exclaimed in blustery huff. "Honestly, for how he's treated you Shini, without an iota of respect for even your _name _or who you _are_, I frankly can't see a reason not to let him take care of his own damn self!" the mother reprimanded sharply. As her temper flared an ethereal white-gold glow began to seep from her luscious blonde hair and reveal a heavenly aura.

And the shock was equaled in the mortal himself, who was staring firmly at the slight God of Death, the God of Death in his mud-caked, oil dripping robes, with his tangled brown hairs and blue-violet bloodstains. There really shouldn't have been a sentiment left for him, after all the things he really had done. Heero would probably have shot himself in the foot before relenting and admitting that he had hurt the Shinigami to any one, but he understood that he had inflicted pain upon a deity who had the emotions of a human being. And to see such selflessness in return for all the harsh things he'd said was unexpected, to say the least.

"Shini, don't be ridiculous—"

The Angel of Death turned smoldering violet eyes toward his mother, sternly confirming what he had said, wrapping his arms around his own chest to keep himself warm as an inexplicable coldness filled the alleyway.

"_Okasan_, he's been really hurt—And that's only Shini's fault," he said firmly, lifting his chin to seeming prop up his courage, as it was sagging with exhaustion. "Please, help him. He's not like us, _Okasan_, it hurts him much more than it can hurt us."

Iria twisted her pouting red lips untrustingly and looked flatly over at Heero.

He stiffened and almost looked ruffled. Pinned beneath the gaze, he deepened the frown as her eyes dully searched him for some fault unknown to him.

Meanwhile, Shini shuffled over and tugged at her robe humbly to nudge her toward what he wanted, and what Heero sorely needed.

"Shini doesn't care what he did before. Shini doesn't want anyone to ever get hurt because of him again. Not again," the black-winged god with the blue-violet blood pleaded seriously with his headstrong, winged mother.

As Heero was watching, his arranged husband was taking on a look that was unfitting for the one known as Death: an honest remorse. A second later, he glanced over and was transfixed with staring at the mortal with those frustrating puppy eyes of him, ones that didn't mean to look so imploring but just were anyway.

Flinging an unhappy finger in the mortal's direction, Iria turned to her son with a new argument and an equally strong expression on her face.

"He'd be too stubborn to take the help, and besides, it's not even that bad," the Goddess of Love disputed evenly, taking another level look over at the troublesome man who she had arranged with her son, and had had sudden doubts about.

She was honestly disgusted with how easily he seemed to have tricked her about his character—he was not like the man she and Shinigami had observed in candidacy for a year, not when all the godly pressure fell on him. And as far as Iria was concerned, that ability to deal with the supernatural level-headed was something Heero Yuy did not use, and Shini needed if he were ever to find a place to stay while he was banished from Hell.

"It's only a little scratch! Compared to what it could have done, had Shinigami not come and pulled your ass out of trouble, it's nothing," Iria said, addressing the mortal himself, but making sure that everyone understood her tone and the spark in her eye. "I don't think he should even be worried. It's not something that needs divine healing—get a bandage, for Hell's sake."

Shini was not satisfied with his mother's righteous anger that prevented Heero from getting the attention he needed, and it was evident in the childish way he flared his cheeks and stared at the side of her face. There was his mother's temper, thought the mortal man watching the two gods, mother and son, argue about whether to take care of him. Turning her head back, she caught the glare and finally relented. But only with a frown.

"You're both so stubborn. How could I doubt that you two were a match made in Hell?" Iria grumbled to herself as she stalked over to her son-in-law, still clutching his jacket around him to keep warm. It was getting strangely cold, he noticed, almost as if summer had just faded away while they argued.

"Fine. Come here, then." Ruffling her feathers, she lunged out a hand and tugged him forward when he did not move and then lifted the glowing palm toward his scratched up chest. The Shinigami made a small look of happiness from behind his mother.

"Vengeance spirits create a sensation of pain that's greater than the actual damage done, just to let you know. You imagine you're in more pain than you actually are because that's part of what they do, they cause suffering despite being mostly powerless," the one known as Aphrodite said as she went to work grudgingly. Using her thumb, she began rubbing away the blood and torn skin like it were chalk on a blackboard and leaving nothing but flawless skin when she lifted her hand away. It was erased, like it had never been there. The pain left him too.

"And," Iria went on indefinitely, explaining how he had been fine all along, "they aren't that strong. They have to gain momentum before they have enough power to break through human skin, or try to wear or knock them out. Hardly that big of a threat."

However much his mother grumbled, that pleased trace of a smile didn't leave his face after all the traces of blood had left Heero's chest. He huddled his wings around his shoulders and remained silent. Iria lifted her hand and roughly wiped a finger across Heero's forehead, erasing the last cut, before she moved away from him and went back to the Shinigami.

The same process was performed on the God of Death, erasing the faint blue stains of blood that ran down his face and even picking the leaves from his hair. Once he was satisfactorily cleaned up, no longer carrying the ragged look he had before, Iria glanced back over to Heero, with one hand on the Shinigami's shoulder.

He tensed up again, uncertain beneath both of their gazes. He truly was indebted to them now, and he wasn't sure how or if he could get out of the arranged marriage anymore. He had a sinking suspicion that Iria might force him into it just for being so uncooperative with her and the spite that it would bring upon him.

Eventually, he was shocked to hear Iria sigh and say, "You can go home now, Heero Yuy."

"What?" he asked blankly, after staying quiet for so long. "I-I can?"

"Shini and I both understand if you're opposed to going along with this," the Goddess of Love explained calmly, still with her hand on her son's shoulder, almost as if comforting him because of what she was saying. "Despite what I may seem like when I'm upset, Heero Yuy, I do take into consideration what your feelings about all this are. Otherwise I would have lost my job many centuries ago. If you're too frightened or you don't want to go through with this all, then I can have the Amendment nullified by tomorrow."

He wasn't sure of how to respond to that, and the words probably would have died on his tongue had he tried to say something, but it seemed to have been decided already. With an arm over his shoulder, the two winged deities began walking out of the alley, with or without the mortal it seemed. Still a little shocked with the ease that his problem had disappeared, after so much trouble had been created out of it, he stood fast. A look over the Shinigami's shoulder brought him back to reality, and as soon as he started walking, the Angel of Death hurriedly turned his head around again.

However, that wouldn't be the only surprise he suffered for the day. As the unlikely trio walked out of the junkyard alley way, with the remains of the _animus ultionis_ now completely evaporated, it didn't take Heero long to figure out that something was very wrong with what he was seeing.

In the middle of the idle street that was lined with old apartments, long-evicted bakeries, failed restaurant ventures, and very few pedestrians, there had been a spillage of crumbs somewhere that had attracted a group of pigeons. It wasn't their presence that shocked him, it was their... status. A woman with an umbrella had gone walking by and stirred them up into the air, and they had stayed there long after they had taken off, and the woman had yet to step by them. They were frozen in place completely. The white and smoky gray of pigeon wings was extended in the air, mid-flap, utterly motionless. The woman's foot hovered an inch above the pavement and didn't move.

Heero had a feeling that time had stopped. But hey, that might have just been him.

While he stopped and stared, noticing how even the sun had lost that fiery touch and looked dull and a flat tone of yellow, Iria noticed and opened her mouth to explain. "Yes, Time has been stopped, as you know it," she said with a sigh, lifting her arm from Shinigami's shoulders. She scratched idly at the back of her neck and then fanned out some of her long golden hair as habit commanded. "It's so annoying to have to deal with the complaints that we receive when Shini or myself are spotted by mortals. I know that he probably didn't take the time to conceal himself while he came here to save your sorry ass—" Heero narrowed his eyes at her for that remark. "—so I had no choice but to start erasing memories to keep him concealed from the Earthly conscious."

"And the crew and the people that saw him at the safehouse?" he inquired quietly, still taken by the strange sight of a street without Time.

"No idea. However, they know they met something supernatural that they really didn't enjoy meeting, so they left as quickly as they could."

Only semi-satisfied with the results, Heero arched an eyebrow at the blonde Aphrodite. "And the tapes?"

"Shini'll only show up as a black haze—like an apparition—if at all. You see, most mortals possess dismal senses of the supernatural, the pulse just below the surface. Either they're too absorbed with their clumsy libidos or their dead-end jobs or their soy lattes to really pay attention to something that isn't part of their schedule," Iria said, continuing beyond what Heero had really wanted in an answer, but still keeping his attention undividedly. "I have to admit, I was surprised that you would be able to see even a smidgen of metaphysical energy, what with the way you're wound tighter than a titanium coil and all."

Resisting another growl, Heero asked, "Do you mean the ghost of the little girl?"

With a snigger, Iria turned her head again and smirked snobbishly. "That really did scare you. You were quivering in your bootstraps, I would be so bold to say!" Even the Shinigami couldn't resist a little laughter at the mortal's expense, and it merited a quick slash by the glare that took his face. Shini quickly sealed his lips when he caught his arranged husband frowning at him and looked away, but he was still having trouble in holding back a giggle at his expense.

"Yes, I sent that as a test, if you mean that _ghost_.' Really, it was the equivalent of something like an energy fart I pulled off a crow's aura just before you reached the house, but I'm sure it must have been truly terrifying."

"Whatever," the disgruntled mortal snapped lowly. He didn't see the tweaked little smile shot his way from beyond the Goddess of Love when he returned to staring at the street without Time.

Beneath that complacent look, Iria spoke up again, folding her arms and quietly taking in the sight of birds frozen in flight and a man in the process of tripping. "I would have to say that aside from one other person, you, Heero Yuy, are the only human being who knows inescapably of the existence of Shinigami. Well, aside from one, luckily."

A sliver of something seeped into her tone and the concept of only one human being having seen a Shinigami besides from himself sparked something in his curiosity. Heero turned his head to look at Iria's mythically regal profile when from far off, the hiss of a train whistle cut the air suddenly. At the same moment, the air began to warm again and where utter silence had been was the sound of a man grunting as he tripped. The flutter of wings continued up into the air until the silhouette of the pigeons disappeared, all together unknowingly ringing in the return arrival of Time.

"Shit," Iria said lowly. "I didn't think it would start back up so soon. Well, my powers aren't the best when I'm under a lot of stress, I suppose." Her words were really addressing no one because Heero bolted from where he was standing and sprinted across the street without another word. "Hey, where the Hell do you think you're going?!" she snapped promptly after him. "You could at least have said goodbye, you bloody ingrate! Now, where does he think he's going in such a hurry?"

As the second train whistle burst into the air, announcing from a distance that time had run out for those waiting for a ride out, the Shinigami nervously tightened his grip around Iria's sleeve. His eyes followed the mortal as he disappeared through the alleyways, even after he had slipped out of sight, and he bit his teeth anxiously. They ground uncertainly for a second, and it caught his mother's attention.

"Is something the matter?"

Shini didn't glance up to meet her concerned look as he let go and ripped away from her and sprinted across the street without a regard to the pedestrians. Needless to say, none of their morning coffees would have prepared them adequately for the winged deity that rushed by them on foot, the tie for his black robes and his long hair flapping like banners in the air behind him.

"Shini!" Iria snapped sharply after her waywardly son, filling her face with a frustrated color very unfitting for a Divine who needed to be collected and impartial. She jabbed her finger dangerously at the spot beside her where he had once stood. "Get back here, Shinigami! Don't you dare go running after him—we agreed that we would let him go if he didn't want the pressure! We agreed! It's already been decided, Shini!"

The only answer she received was a momentary glance over the shoulder. Shini gave her an unreadable look, though if she had been closer she might have detected a trace of a defiant smile, and that would have just fanned the flames of her temper to much more uncontrollable heights.

"Shini!" Iria barked finally, smacking her shoe against the pavement so that puffs of valentine red smoke began leaking out from the ground. When he too disappeared off into the distance, the Goddess of Love let out an angry noise and turned with a loud huff to two wide-eyed humans, clutching their bags in shock.

"What," she drawled caustically, when they remained stock-still and equally tongue-tied, "haven't you seen a beautiful woman before? Well, it's a shame you won't be able to remember it then."

Iria dutifully lifted her hand at the two, and when a pink haze descended on them like pollen sifting to the ground and caused them both to sneeze loudly, she walked away while the two tried remembering just who they were for a few very confused minutes.

===

[[[A/N]]]

Pfft. This dialogue took much longer than I expected it too, but I suppose it's one of those pleasant surprises. I guess. I decided to spilt the content of this chapter into two because this part turned out longer than anticipated. Well, waste not, want not. {I really have no idea how to use that phrase, if you haven't noticed} Thank you, everyone, for all the support. I've been so happy to hear from all of you. I never imagined I'd actually be able to carry this story like I have been. Hopefully this won't become some black velvet script. {Yep, there's another pretty phrase I toss in like an idiot because it sounds nice. -} Usted tiene un celebracion feliz este fin de semana. Merry Indepedence Day! Oh, and good news, too—a new Green Day record this year!


	9. Last Ride Out

Chapter 9

Last Ride Out

Sneakers loudly drummed across the floorboards as the departing smoke began to dissolve in the air. He was thoroughly out of breath by the time he made it to the train station and folded forward with hands gripped around his knees as he struggled to gather his lungs beneath him. Running normally wouldn't have bothered him, but lately the stress had been wearing down on him, and the railroad tracks were so conveniently located on the fringes of town. Heero panted raggedly as he was forced to watch the train thunder along the tracks away from him while his frustration finally began to flame in his chest. After all this time, after all the damned god trouble, and he misses his ride out?

The mortal sighed angrily, narrowing his eyes as he struggled to see the gleaming metal hull of the train in the summer sunlight. And when it disappeared, he sighed and felt all of his exhaustion finally catch up with him, along with an overwhelming sense of disappointment. There was a part of him that only wanted to go home and be rid of all the supernatural stresses that had hounded him since setting foot in this strange country. Heero was prepared to turn and find him a suitable bed on the metal bench when there was a soft sound of thudding growing louder behind him. It wasn't the loud, buckling sound of boots, and he twisted his head around in a listless curiosity to see something dark moving very quickly at him. Out of instinct, he had the impulse to jerk out of the way while a tiny part of his brain feared it was somehow another troublesome spirit licking its chops and diving at him.

Two hands clasped his wrist as the black blur kept running past him, its bare feet padding loudly against the platform's polished floorboards. Heero was jerked forward unceremoniously and he let out a bewildered grunt. Simultaneously a blustery gust of air sent his caramel-highlighted bangs whipping in his face as the Shinigami spread his wings in ten feet of midnight black feathers. Only instants later that air swelled beneath the deity's wings and a powerful surge sent them both into the air. Heero felt his sneakers lift effortlessly off the platform, and his weight pulling down on his wrist as Shini struggled with both hands to securely pull him up.

Heero heavily swung his opposite arm up and latched on the Shinigami's thin arm, as he was pulled higher and higher into the air.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Heero snapped nervously as the wind tossed his hair and loose shirt around. Inside his ribs his heart was drumming like a panicked hummingbird locked inside a wire cage and his abrupt airborne state was making him slightly light-headed, watching the railroad tracks grow steadily smaller and the lush green landscape fan out like a storybook illustration below his sneakers.

Shini took broad swipes at the air with his divine wings as he flew, practically dragging his arranged husband through the air, roughly fifty feet about the blue flint gravel scattered around the tracks.

A mischievous grin lit up his devilishly angelic face, matted hair and eartails fluttering generously in the wind. "Hello, _Teishu_!" Shini said with his best sunny expression. A few dislodged, soot-black feathers were lost to the wind and floated away without a care.

"What do you think you're doing? Let me down!"

The same waggish grin remained, as Shini didn't bother answering his question. "Hold on, it could be a bumpy landing!"

The mortal's heart drummed steadily in the bottom of his throat as he tightened his grip and anxiously turned his head to see what the Shinigami was grinning so stupidly about. His heart promptly clattered to the soles of his shoes, realizing that they were gliding quickly toward the train, which rumbled along at a healthy fifty miles per hour. It was oblivious to the fact that it was being chased by an Angel of Death, dragging one very high-strung husband along with him.

But as they came closer to the train, and at a very quick pace, to Heero's surprise, whatever strength that had possessed the Shinigami while he escorted the mortal back to his ride out of town began to wither. In simple terms, Shini was tiring quickly under the strain and drooping lower to the ground. Above him, he could hear the deity's panting breaths hissing through his teeth as he struggled to catch up before his wings gave out from under him and Shini's hands were clamped around Heero's wrist so tightly that length of his forearm was starting to turn red. While still living in the simmering depths of Hell, Shini had been able to jeer in the face of such trivial things as gravity and mass—for a millennium he had adjusted to supporting his only own light weight in the gusty atmosphere of the underworld. Earth's atmosphere was much trickier than he remembered it being since the last time he had lived above ground.

As he strained to avoid plunging to the ground, Shini realized that he hadn't even considered if he could actually carry Heero's weight before dragging him off solid ground.

It was a reality that brought both him and his arranged husband crashing down instants later as his wings caught another gust of air but this time buckled back out of pure exhaustion. With a startled yelp, Shini felt gravity take hold and send him diving rapidly back toward the earth, seemingly laughing at its victory as wind howled rowdily past his ears.

Luckily, the plunge sent them careening straight into the back door of the final passenger car on the train. Heero had given up fighting and braced himself for impact. Meanwhile, Shini let out another high-pitched yelp as he crashed through the red-painted, wooden back door. The hinges burst off as the Angel of Death's momentum sent him careening even further. The force of impact jarred his hand loose and dropped Heero harmlessly on the door, which now was pressed flat against the carpet inside the emptied passenger car. With wings boxing against the mahogany-paneled wall and the doors of the cabins in the narrow hallway, Shini summersault six times until his back finally struck the back wall of the car, stilling his wild ride.

Heero meanwhile gingerly pulled his cheek from the carvings of the door and rubbed agitatedly at his head, groaning lowly. "_Itai_—" There was a distinct ache in the side of his face that suggested he might have a very unpleasant bruise to deal with later. Heero groaned again, marveling just how he could fall into so much trouble by just being in the same plain of being with that particular Son of Shinigami.

The door had been flung loudly to the floor and stirred up a layer of dust into the air inside the unused passenger car. Along the row of four cabins, there were assortments of needed repairs, faulty doors, cracked windows, torn upholstery—the car probably had been sealed off from the rest of the train and was being towed to a place where it could receive the needed fixing. Lucky again. Heero noticed, as he used the arm not pinned under him to lever him up, that however much bad luck hounded him, there were always a few hints of good luck. He hadn't been seen by anyone other than Iria with the Shinigami.

Said Shinigami moaned at the end of the car, his eyes squinted shut and his teeth gritted slightly. After rolling a good twelve feet after knocking down the door, he had come to a jolting stop against the door that separated the cars. The broken window had been blocked out with a board of wood, preventing him from being seen by any wandering passengers in the other car.

His back was pressed against the door and his legs tangled in his dark robes and jutting at ridiculous angles into the air. The tips of his shoulder blades barely touched the carpet and it seemed the majority of his weight was on his neck. Hair spilled out around him, and both wings were pressed lightly against the narrow walls. Even his tail drooped back toward the floor. Shini mumbled something in a foreign tongue and blew the hair out of his mouth and eyes with a puff of air.

For a second, the absolute absurdity of the sight of a God of Death planted upside down on his neck and turning bright purple in the face from all his blue-colored blood rushing to his head made Heero's lips twitch without his permission and sort of smirk. But the impulse disappeared as he heard a sound behind him.

Shini opened his eyes and looked past Heero at what had caused the sound, everything topsy-turvy.

Something supernatural lifted Heero gently off the door he was laying on and sat him back down on the carpet, facing the light streaming in. Iria stood before him, still in her high heels and bathrobe, and bent down to pick up the door. With a hand on either side of it, the one known otherwise as Aphrodite picked up the broken door and turned around and set it back on the doorframe. The hinges still lay on the floor, but she managed to push it into place so that it wouldn't jar open again. She turned her head once finished and looked at Heero, then up to Shinigami, who had slowly begun the process of flipping himself right side up without banging up his wings too much.

"Well, aren't you two just a devil and a devil's advocate, running off together all the time," she commented evenly, clapping the dust of her hands. Then she put them either on her hips. "And what's with all that trouble, anyway? I grant you permission to get out of the marriage, and you run off without even saying a word! I thought you'd be done stirring things up like you always seem to do."

"I missed my train," he answered plainly, arching an eyebrow at her as if she was too dense to actually figure that out herself.

"I can _see_ that," Iria drawled. Her eyes quickly darted over to her son as he stood up uncertainly and finished brushing out his mussed robes and hair. "And you, Shini—I'm not even going to start on you."

The Angel of Death smiled nervously.

"We'll talk about disobeying me later." Iria vainly straightened out her long blonde hair, which had been slightly tousled by the wind going by the train. "And stop all the running around, you two. You're going to be the death of my favorite shoes," she muttered to herself as she stepped over Heero's legs and opened the rickety door on cabin Number 58 with a breezy sigh. "Alright. Now, come inside. I've got something important to say to the both of you, especially you, Arrogant Mortal—"

As she pushed the red-metal frame all the way open, it emitted a horrible racket as something broke loudly and the door clattered off the hinge to the floor, falling between herself, Heero and Shinigami. She sent a wary look to each of them before grumbling, "Ah, just leave it and get in here."

The Goddess of Love disappeared into the cabin and settled herself down in the window seat to the left, dusting off the fabric before sitting down and crossing her legs, Sharon Stone style. [1]

Just outside the cabin, Shini glanced down at Heero with cautious eyes. The mortal was sending a weary look in the direction that his in-law had disappeared to and then pushed his back against the wall to help him gain the leverage to stand up. He was still sore from hitting the pavement, being attacked, then falling onto a train, and soon found a hand being extended toward him. The Shinigami presented him with his best apologetic smile, and Heero reluctantly took his hand, a little unsettled by the ease with which the deity acted so pleasant toward him. He was pulled up to his feet and they quickly let go of each other. Shini went inside first, and Heero followed after sighing to himself and momentarily rubbing at the side of his face.

When he walked inside the cabin, something flew at his face and he lifted his hands to roughly catch his own backpack, after Iria had tossed it to him. "You left that back in the alley, you know. I think I deserve a little thanks for getting it and toting it around while I chased you down," she said sweetly, sitting back down.

Heero held the pack by the strap, which had snapped in two and turned ragged and unraveled. Sufficiently ruined, he would say.

"Thank you," he deadpanned. "You're too kind."

Shini sat down beside his mother, who gave him a smile as he seated himself, and who gave Heero an unreadable, inspecting look as the mortal sat down directly across from her and in the other window, with just enough space between him and the black-winged deity that he didn't have the urge to glance over at him inexplicably anymore. His backpack was dropped into the seat beside him, blocking off any chance of the Shinigami sitting next to him. He just didn't think he'd be able to handle it, after the awkward realization that the Angel of Death was still so kind to him, after he'd been so abrasive with him. Heero couldn't help glancing over once, and then tearing his eyes away again when he saw the semi-somber expression.

He looked steadily at the blonde Goddess of Love, trying to shrug off the feeling of those almost sad eyes on him. "So, what did you want to talk about?" he asked curtly

Iria's face turned contorted. "You don't have to sound like you're standing before a firing squad, Heero Yuy," she said resentfully. "I'm just trying to find what's going to be the best for all of us here."

The mortal man lifted an eyebrow flatly.

"Like what?" he asked finally.

The blonde woman lost the sharpness, the precision in her expression as she preceded to explain why she had pulled them into a meeting of sorts instead of leaving the young Heero Yuy to live his life, without any more divine intervention or godly troubles from them. That's what he was thinking. He was curious as to why Iria hadn't immediately escorted her son away, after she had been so irate with the way that he had treated him, and even more curious when she began to talk with an almost forlorn tone to her face.

"After you ran off, Heero Yuy, I began to reconsider some things about the current situation and about you and the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami—"

"I thought you said that I could decline," he cut in sharply as the foliage outside whipped by, blurring steadily as the train rolled on, without notice to the stowaways onboard. "You said that I didn't have to go through with it if I didn't want the responsibility, and I don't."

"I'm not going back on my word, Heero Yuy!" Iria said again, adopting that familiar stern gleam in her eye. "I said that you could go home, and that will not change. You know as well as I do that Gods are held to their word, and there would be some unpleasant consequences for both my son and I if I did happen to go back on it. So take a Midol and settle down, I'm not finished explaining yet."

Reluctantly, Heero reclined tensely back into his seat. His eyes still itched to move, but he refused himself the impulse. Instead he remained receptively silent, willing to listen, however reluctant it may have been. All he wanted to do was go home and forget it all had happened—he had had enough melodrama in his life already and he was sick of dealing with any of it. All he wanted was sit down in his living room and fall asleep to the radio, sitting and staring out the window, then go to work in the morning like he always did. "Alright, what were going to say," he said quietly, not a question.

"Well, Heero Yuy, to be honest, you're the first case in which I actually married someone to Shinigami."

This, needless to say, lifted an eyebrow. "Really." Despite the deadpan tone, he was honestly surprised to hear that.

"Usually, when I actually do find someone I believe would take of Shini, has a suitable life to support him, and has the spiritual capabilities to see him and not fear him—and that rarely happens—I simply sent him to live with that person. Marriage is usually out of the question, and it has been in the past cases." There were sharp needles in her eyes threatening him if he even dared to interrupt her again, though the confusion had caused his scowl to return. "But you, Heero Yuy, were perfect for our cause. Living alone, very physically and mentally capable, fearless, metaphysically aware, clean-freak, motherly—"

"Hey," Heero growled resentfully.

"You wash your windows every week, change the sheets on the guest beds, you have your own tomato garden—that's hardly normal for any one, let alone for a twenty-five year old man! Most boys your age wallow in their own filth all day and scratch themselves and go to keggers."

Heero frowned sharply. "I don't see what's wrong with being decent and clean." His eyebrows dug even deeper after he paused to think. "Wait, how did you—How much were actually watching me?" The only answer was another brief wicked grin from Iria that honestly shouldn't have been on a Divine face.

"You have to understand, we very, very rarely find a suitable candidate. You're the first one I even considered for more than five minutes since the fall of the Old West. Sometimes it can take decades or centuries to find a human, male or female, that has all the capability to deal with the trouble Shini can unwittingly cause. You already know about that." Eventually, Iria sighed and lost her harshness again—that sense of a mourning mother seeped back in, much to Heero's dismay. "You have no idea how stressful it is for Shini and I during our searches for a suitable place. Hades' banishment on Shinigami extends from Hell to all parts of the underworld, as well as the Heavens—though he couldn't get inside if he tried with his un-saintly heritage. While we wait to find a mortal that could take him in, we're forced to stay in Limbo. It's not a very pleasant place—and Shini still manages to find whatever trouble he can."

Heero felt those sad eyes burning quietly on the side of his face, and he turned his eyes downward and looked dully down at his hands on his knees while Iria continued explaining.

"Now I'm not saying that you have to, but I'm simply asking you. If you could just let him stay with you for a week, then I could find somewhere for him to stay so I can start looking for a new candidate. You don't have to, but I'll—"

"Fine, fine, I'll baby-sit," Heero answered quickly, trying to hold the signs of his impatience but utterly failing. He knew what she was asking, and he knew grudgingly that he shouldn't refuse it [some how he was sure it would come around and bit him in the ass, with this streak of luck], so he didn't want to keep hearing her beg so inconspicuously when he had already reluctantly decided. The frustration momentarily returned, but he was distracted from it when he felt those sad eyes lift of him and heard a soft thwacking noise coming from the other side of the cabin. There was heat rising in his face as he frowned and looked up.

The Shinigami's face had secretly lit up and his forked tail had begun wagging inconspicuously against the floor, while his mother's face also took on a grateful smile. Hers, however, was almost hungrily eyeing him, as if sizing him up for a business transaction. "Alright," she said smugly. "A week it is, then."

"Three days," Heero argued back. He was sure that it would dampen the Angel of Death's spirits if he heard him trying to minimize the time he had to play caretaker, but the tattoo of his tail drumming on the carpet only quickened happily.

"Six."

"Four."

"Five," Iria settled finally. That impish smile on her face was indescribably wide, and it made Heero's stomach twist unpleasantly, giving him a unlucky sense he may have bitten off more than he could chew already.

"Five days, Heero Yuy. Now, you've given a God your word, and you're even more obligated to that than a Divine's word to a mortal. Understand? You're bound to it by your very life."

The fluttering tattoo of the Shinigami's tail pounding on the floor was so quick that it began to drone out into a low hum as the young-minded deity couldn't restrain his joy and let out a sound of happiness, tugging on his mother's sleeve and feathers bristling. Iria smiled wickedly at him as her son practically bounced up and down at her side, adding just enough smugness to make the mortal man sigh exasperatedly and put his face in his palms. Once again he was overwhelmed with the sense that he'd bitten off more than he could chew, and the mouthful was quickly getting larger. He groaned to himself, shoving his fingers into his hair and causing his dark brown and caramel bangs to toss about wildly.

Iria kissed her bubbling son on the forehead before quickly standing up and clapping her hands once happily to bring about relative order to the rickety train car. Heero Yuy was still burying his face in his hands, looking like he was ready to keel over, and the Shinigami was curled up in a giggling ball, wagging his tail even louder than before, ready to break through the floorboards. The one known as Aphrodite smiled sweetly as she said, "Alright, now that it's settled, I'd better be going."

"Go, just go," Heero groaned lowly, more despairing than impatient.

"I'll be back in exactly five days at sunset, Heero Yuy, for custody of my sun," she announced smugly. "Now, I expect you take very good care of him while he's in your charge—use your head. Don't cause the same thing you did today, otherwise I don't think I'll be there you help you. I'm going to be very busy this week, but don't be afraid to call me, alright?" the blonde goddess said as she pulled a pearly-white overcoat from the air and tossed it over her shoulders, snuggling her chin into the lush seraph feathers that embellished the collar with a crafty smile. "Don't worry that pretty head of yours too much now, I expect Shini wouldn't like that if you ruined a face like that fretting."

Heero mumbled and shook his head in his palms as his only response. It seemed that what he had agreed to have just sunk into him.

She blew an impertinent kiss at him and turned to her stupidly grinning son. "Now, Shini, I want you to behave for Heero, okay?"

"Of course, _Okasan_!" the Angel of Death chimed in cheerfully.

"You're going to need to hide your wings, don't forget, Shini!"

"Right!" Shini beamed as his mother drew another cape from the air with her delicate fingers, this time summoning a jet black one from the shadows beneath the seat and draping it over his wings and shoulders. Amazingly, it settled against his body and created the illusion that he was simply a normal human being, and as long as he kept his tail tucked inside, it would seem that way to the rest of the world.

"And stay out of trouble until I come back," Iria added, picking out another scrap of leaf out of his hair with a maternal smile. However, it quickly became a much more conspirator expression, while Heero was too busy fretting to notice. Mother and son exchanged equally mischievous glances as she continued. "Mr. Yuy is so very kind to take you in temporarily, so I want you to make him feel comfortable and listen to him. I'll be back."

And with a wink, she turned and bid a goodbye one last time before disappearing into a valentine-red haze.

Shini waved animatedly to where his mother Aphrodite had vanished, still cross-legged on the train seat with an effervescent smile. "See you later, Okasan! Shini will be perfectly behaved, he promises," he answered mischievously.

The unfortunate mortal who had just happened to get swept up in the affairs of a disowned God of Death and his very independent and very headstrong mother who was intent on seeing the two down the aisle for eternity again let out a lamentation through his teeth as he wondered incredulously to himself, "Whatever did I do to deserve this?" Heero was exhausted and sore and completely metaphysically overwhelmed, with killing poltergeists to his left and childish nightmares to his right, and slowly his brain began to shut itself down before there could be visible trails of steam leaking out of his ears. The train rattled on oblivious to the divine melodrama contained in the last car, and Heero found himself passing out of sheer weariness and leaning against the window, already in a deep, black sleep.

===

Heero had been awake for a few seconds in the darkness before his eyes could adjust to the absence of light, save for the glittering red, white, and blue horizon of city lights that was most likely San Francisco approaching in the distance. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had fallen asleep, and only a few more to recognize a soft snoring noise coming from down near his feet. There was an army brat instinct buried in him to jerk his legs, but something warm and soft was lying on his shoes, and a dark cape laid over him. Heero quietly leaned forward to see the Shinigami snoring soundly, his arms folded over Heero's bare feet and a shoe clutched in each hand.

The deity's wings hung loosely in the air without the cape and fluttered ever so slightly as he slept, and his long, tangled hair was spread out over the carpet. While he had slept, the Shinigami had made him more comfortable as he slept, taking off his shoes and forgoing his cape to make sure that he didn't shiver while he slept. And while taking off his sneakers, he was also overtaken by his tiredness and found his arranged husband's stocking feet a warm, convenient place to lay his head. There was even a tiny pool of drool on the carpet, dripping from the corner of his slightly agape mouth.

Heero blinked down in the dim dark blue light of the cabin, and decided that it was better not to disturb him. He turned his head silently and rested his chin in his hand and his elbow in the windowsill. The lights of San Francisco drew closer as the night grew darker, and Heero sighed quietly to himself.

He'd really done it now, hadn't he?

===

[1] Did I go a little too far with the Sharon Stone thing? You know, the smoky interrogation room and that short white skirt? It's not to be taken literally, just with the same attitude. I didn't want to smear Aphrodite's reputation, though I still make her somewhat of a bitch. A loving, motherly bitch with a lot to deal with, but still kind of bitchy. Oh well, Hell hath no fury

===

[[[A/N]]]

Would everyone if I started another story on the side? Maybe, and perhaps I really should be ready to duck to dodge the angry tomatoes if want to announce things like this. I had this big spark of inspiration [though I'm still on edge, just pining for another chapter of Teen Spirit, which is like my writing bread-and-water] and I wanted to start another Duo P.O.V. story in the same style of The .45 Colt War. It wouldn't be as dark or violent as the last one, but much more hopelessly romantic. It's about a musical rivalry between Duo's band and the other upstart band in town, featuring the rich kids. That would be Quatre, Milliardo, Trieze, and of course, Heero. I know, I know, I already have so much on my plate. I have to finish my 70,000 word OTP entry before August 1, and I'm trying to finish the first arch of My Shini, My Hamburger, and then there's another Duo P.O.V. story I'd like to start, and so many other unfinished ideas Gahh! Stop with all the extra inspiration!


	10. The Morning Rituals

Chapter 10

The Morning Rituals

"Hey. Wake up. We're here."

There was a nudging hand on the Shinigami's shoulder just as it was growing lighter outside, the sun preparing itself for another day just below the horizon. The train had finally come to a halt at its destination—neatly inside a San Franciscan train station. Sitting in the seat, Heero had been awake since he woke up with the Shinigami snoring literally at his feet. He'd barely moved until they had pulled up to platform number nine and the engine finally hissed and settled down. He didn't want to wake the slumbering Shinigami until it was absolutely necessary. He wanted to convince himself that it was simply because he was uneasy in a Divine's presence, but couldn't quite do it.

Heero looked dully down at the Shinigami's head and straightened back up in his seat when the deity whined immaturely in his sleep and rolled onto his side, too drowsy to notice that he was pinning his wing against the seat at an awkward angle. The mortal had to sigh to himself as he rubbed his temples, praying that he would be able to avoid another headache at least until they had gotten off onto the platform. Wonderful. He was giving asylum to a God of Death, as well as a stubborn slugabed. Imagining dragging his ward every morning out of bed—or worse, off of him—didn't particularly soothe his mind. Eventually, Heero was able to ignore the impending headache and lean down to try and shake the deity awake again.

"We're here," the mortal was forced to repeat dully, automatically inserting an edge of command into his tone as he again gently shook the Shinigami's nearest shoulder. "Come on. Wake up, Shinigami. I don't intend to stay on a train for the rest of my life."

"Mmmnnhhh," Shini mumbled finally, as Heero's gentle shaking got through his dream world and literally shook him back into reality. The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami had the bad habit of always lounging around in bed in the morning, no matter how many hours or, in some cases, years of sleep he would get. His mother was especially familiar with the way he loved to ignore whatever attempts were made to rouse him. But when he blinked open his eyes and saw a floral pattern on red carpet he registered that he was no longer in Hell or Purgatory, and that stirred him awake. If he were in that limbo, many horrifically bored souls would be bothering him until he woke for their own amusement.

Sleep still hazed through his brain, though, and his wings fluttered as he drowsily settled back onto his bottom and began his day first off with a yawn, displaying all of his humanoid thirty-two teeth. Each of Heero's sneakers fell to the floor with a pair of low thuds, slipping out of his morning-weak fingers. Luckily, Heero anticipated it and managed not to get his toes landed on by his own shoes and then silently observed the God of Death's tiny waking rituals. Though his wings couldn't expand fully within the confines of the cabin, Shini spread them as much as he could, until they pressed against the opposite walls. He stretched out his arms and let out a dozy, happy sigh. Heero let a little scowl slip through, only because he was forced to lean to the side to avoid allowing the black feathers to brush his face.

The Shinigami then blinked over to his arranged husband with half-lidded eyes and rubbed a little drool off the side of his mouth.

"_Ohayo_," the winged deity greeted warmly, scratching at his disheveled bed-head. "How was the sleeping, _Teishu_?"

"It was fine," Heero answered civilly, though he was more concerned with getting to the airport in order to get himself home, reluctantly with a Shinigami in his charge, than he was with morning pleasantries. Though he was equally tired and had a craving for something caffinated to jolt him fully awake, he understood they needed to leave right away and what the consequences of being seen could be, especially that he had a stow-away' with him. Heero had bought a train ticket, yes, but explaining away a winged man robed only from the waist down and without a ticket would be trouble.

"Now, come on. We should get off the train before anyone figures out that we're back here," Heero said quietly, peeling the dark cloak off of him and tossing it to the Shinigami without looking. The Angel of Death didn't move to catch it and it flopped lopsidedly over his head. As Heero dutifully retrieved both of his sneakers and toed them on while still sitting, Shini lifted up the edge of the cloak with a hand and curiously peered out at his husband, a smile at the ready.

"Would you be in trouble, then?" Shini's innocent grin flashed at him, trying to make him return the gesture. Heero gave him a momentarily unreadable glance as he hoisted a foot onto the seat to tighten the laces of his sneakers, and the deity made a happy noise to himself. He crawled up closer and plopped down onto his haunches so that he was looking up at Heero almost adoringly, chin in palm. "Shini means, would the other mortals really be angry at you if they saw you with Shini?" he inquired with an honest curiosity.

"No. I don't think they would be angry." Finishing up one foot, Heero quickly moved onto the other, avoiding looking directly into that inquisitive face. It made him think of cinnamon and the storage shed. "People fear Death, no matter how young or old they are. They'd be frightened of you."

When he had slipped on both sneakers, Heero seemed to slip easily into a militaristic frame of mind that allowed him to cancel out the strange effects the Shinigami's strange demeanor and equally strange existence had on him and keep his mind on what needed to be accomplished at the same time. Blame it on his history, but Heero had taken his parents affection for commitment to getting things done to heart ever since their deaths, which had left him to forge his own life without parental help. He had learned to be responsible very quickly.

"Oh," Shini whispered in a hushed tone, still watching Heero as he picked up his backpack and slung it over a shoulder. When he had finished getting all his things, the Japanese man stood up and looked expectantly at the Shinigami gaping up at him in return, not realizing at first that he was blocking the way out. First, he pulled the cloak off his shoulder and balled into his lap as he asked, "Is Shini really that scary, _Teishu_? He doesn't understand what he does to scare them. He doesn't mean to do it."

Before he opened his mouth to more than likely impatiently ask the deity to stand up so that they could get out of the cabin before some wayward conductor could stumble across them, Heero looked down at Shini with a blank look. He carefully appraised the question as those godly violet eyes waited diligently for whatever answer he would give him, knowing that the Shinigami was young-minded and probably didn't understand what his presence did to most mortals. It made him wonder just how much contact he really had had with the people between Heaven and Hell.

"They're not frightened by what you do, Shini. They're frightened of you because of the fact that you're Death. Nothing more," Heero assured almost awkwardly, not used to the feel of heartening words in his mouth so readily. He also hesitated to say the deity's nickname again, only for the second time. However, despite the tone in his voice, it seemed to make Shinigami a tad bit brighter than he had been while asking.

Eyebrows hitched together slightly in confusion, while divine hands wrung through the dark, unearthly fabric laid across his lap. "But Shinigami has not done anything to make them so scared of him, right? Shini didn't, did he?"

"No, you didn't," Heero responded quickly, suddenly becoming more eager to get out of the train station and end the bizarre first conversation with the deity he was supposed to recognize as his husband.

The Shinigami nervously bit his lip. "It is okay, then? If he stays?"

"Until your mother comes back to get you."

From where he was sitting on the carpet, with his ruffled robes, disheveled hair, and cartoonish forked tail wagging on the floor at his side, the Shinigami gave him a disarming grin and wrapped his arms happily around the balled-up cloak in his lap, still looking up at the mortal. "Thank you, _Teishu_!" Again, there was the happy drumming from his demonic tail. Heero was convinced he really must have the mind of a child, or that of a golden retriever. [1]

He made an uncertain expression in return, carefully analyzing the Shinigami's face as he did so. "My name is Heero, not _Teishu_. You don't have to keep calling me that."

"Alright, _Époux_." Shini's smile was as impenetrably bright as before. "And thank you again, _Teishu_."

The mortal just sighed to himself and re-shouldered the weight of his backpack and began walking to the door. Shini leaned to the side silently to let him by, still keeping his focus locked on his arranged husband's face, and craning his head over his shoulder to follow him with his eyes as he got to the empty doorway, where the broken door had once hung on its broken hinges. The deity's tail obediently stopped thumping as Heero began to address him in a very detached tone—the one he used to keep himself calm as well as warn others he wasn't in the mood for any more trouble. He already had a bundle of it to ship across the Pacific Ocean.

"Yeah, don't mention it," he said quickly. "Don't forget to put on that cape, and let's hurry up and go. We can't be seen, and I need to start thinking of ways to sneak you onto the flight."

Heero had put his hand on the doorframe and begun turning the corner when he suddenly felt both of the Shinigami's arms wrapping around his midsection and pulling him back against the Angel of Death himself, with his back against his chest and one very impertinent nose nuzzling against the nape of his neck. Between them was only Heero's backpack, and it might have helped him keep his collection when he stiffened up and looked sharply over his shoulder. With a smile and a laugh that tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck, the Shinigami held him tighter and said playfully, "Hey, wait for Shinigami!"

"Get off me," he demanded flatly.

The Angel of Death giggled almost conspiratorially to himself as he again squeezed both of his arms around Heero, rocking him slightly back and forth as he did so. "Oh, come on, _Teishu_! Don't you know?" It didn't bother him—if he had even noticed it—the fire the mortal's dark blue eyes were shooting at him, or the two hands he had that were ready to wrench him off of him and perhaps do something to be regretted. Morning was not the best time to try Heero Yuy's patience, though Shini had yet to realize it.

"Know what?" he grudgingly asked in reply, feeling as if he was participating in the worst knock-knock joke he'd ever heard.

"Shinigami was always told when he was little never to start waking up without a g'morning kiss, the very first thing. Before breaking fast, or getting robed sometimes, even. Very important," he informed the captive mortal very grandly, leaning to the side to make eye contact with him as he finished. Heero was looking at him impatiently over his shoulder and one eyebrow had dug in suspiciously, though he displayed an expression that said he wasn't really concerned with any of his morning rituals. Inside, it was planting an anxiously little seed—it only made him want to get home even more and just try and survive for another five days with a God of Death.

"Oh, really," he chimed in dully.

Shini's sunny, untouchable grin didn't fade, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Uh-huh. And it was _Okasan_ that told him herself, so he has to, otherwise she said that bad luck will find him. And he really hates bad luck. It follows him everywhere unless he has a g'morning kiss! Sometimes he can't find places to hide himself when his brothers tease him and tie him to the Burning Boulders! And it hurts! Always bad luck."

"So I've noticed," Heero droned once the Shinigami had finished his giddy rattling-ons, fidgeting slightly within his circle of arms. During the little speech, intentionally or unconsciously, he felt the tips of Shini's fingers begin to play with the fabric of his shirt ever so subtly, but hinting at something Heero had no intention of even thinking about at the time. The sudden lightness in his stomach resulting only helped to stir up his temper and eat away at patience.

He turned his head to again face forward, unable to look at the deity's face in his impatience. There was a noticeable moment's hesitation before he grabbed one of the Shinigami's wrists and pulled it away from him gently. But he was still firm enough to make sure that he got the message, and despite the pout, the other arm fell away.

Still holding Shini's wrist, Heero pulled him along. "Sorry, but it sounds like just another superstition to me. And we don't have the time to play games. _I_ don't have the time to play games."

"_Teishu!_" the longhaired, black-winged deity protested, yanking his hand back in the other direction. He was ready to stomp his foot like a disgruntled child as his arranged mortal husband tugged him along towards the doorway again.

"We need to go," Heero insisted over the whine that Shini gave as he said so.

Suddenly, he had somehow managed to loose his grip on the deity's wrist and only a few seconds later there was a Shinigami blocking the doorway in front of him, his inborn stubbornness shining radiantly through his innocent, pouting face. The bone in each of his wings was pressed against either side of the doorway and braced tightly, making sure that no one would pass through without having to break his wings. He did his best to give an intimidating, persuasive look, but with his bed-ruffled hair and frustrated face, it was more comically than anything close to daunting.

Heero allowed himself an obviously impatient huff, only to let some of the stress escape in a sigh. "_Shinigami_" he reprimanded in a half-growl.

Mimicking him, the Angel of Death tilted his head ridiculously to the side and dipped down into a deeper, more nasal tone of voice. "_Teishu_"

The devilish grin didn't relent an inch to the glowering look he was receiving for once again disobeying those who would be his caretakers. And Heero didn't seem intent on caving in either, deepening the frown he wore as he looked evenly over to the deity's unearthly violet eyes. Eventually, he mentally wavered, though his face didn't budge. He had a feeling that if the son of Iria was just as headstrong as his mother—which he obviously was—then there was no use in a lowly mortal such as himself trying to compete with such a Divine's will.

"Is this a rule you made just for me?" Heero asked.

"Who else would it be for?" Shini answered plainly.

Heero frowned unapologetically at the face just across from him, but it didn't make a dent in the strange mixture of unadulterated innocence and mischief that made up this particular Shinigami, or his sly, victorious smile. When the deity didn't say anything and only smiled at him, Heero finally let out a sigh and relented. "Fine."

Tensely balling up his fists at his side to keep his temper in check in the face of that triumphant smirk, Heero grudgingly leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on the deity's cheek, feeling it move slightly as the smile on his face grew even wider. When he pulled back, his brows were drawn together impatiently to hide whatever may have betrayed him on his face and he again insisted, looking at the carpet, "We need to go now, alright?"

"Of course, _Teishu_," Shinigami beamed happily, making the furrowed expression on Heero's face deepen even more for some inexplicable reason. "Let's go home!" he gushed.

Heero had to roll his eyes. Just once.

===

[1] In Heero's defense, he's just a little cranky with all that's being set on his shoulders—he's been living completely on his own for the last ten years since his parent's passing, working independently [though I won't tell you what he does yet, it's just so ironic for a military man like him] and he isn't used to having people living with him, especially not a spouse. So give the man an intsy-wintsy break. I made him kiss Shini, didn't I? It's not all thorns and stones in there.

_Ohayo_ = Good Morning

===

[[[A/N]]]

Short and sweet, today, I guess. I apologize fully to all of those who've kept hanging by being so stupid and in the process unable to write for the past week, but I wrote furiously today on a reprieve and managed to make a short little fluff fest for y'all. Well, not exactly a festival of fluff, but the best that I could write without going beyond my chapter-allowance of lovey-dovey. Yeah, I know, I wish I could do whatever I wanted with the two, but this time I've got a very strict plotline to follow and I just can't jump into whatever takes my fancy. Sorry. And if I break the rules, Iria has the authority to whip me. .' For me, I just have to post this chapter and not look while I do it because I feel bad, making it so short, but I thought it'd be better to give a little to tide over until I can get the next one out. Which will be quicker, hopefully, and longer. And then, another long wait. I'll be in Augusta at a cabin with a friend's family from Wednesday of next week until Sunday night, so if you'll be patient, I'll get back to work right away! Promise!


	11. The Terminal and the Terminally Curious

Chapter 11

The Terminal and the Terminally Curious

There still was a significant drone of talking echoing between the station walls, even though the clock declared that it was only just past seven in the morning, Pacific Time. With the arrival of the train that housed the mortal Heero Yuy and his immortal stowaway, the engine hissed quietly and died down, allowing it to settle down into a deep sleep of sort while it would receive the needed repairs. Passengers in their jackets and freshly groomed clothes, steaming coffee and sugary breakfasts on the run in hand, mulled past the train on their way to and from their own scheduled boardings.

Beams of stunning California morning light seeped in and illuminated the dark circles beneath many a mortal eye, and Heero carefully observed all this from the door at the back platform with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a inquisitive Shinigami trying to peer over it. Despite the slight distraction tugging anxiously at his sleeve and mewling in protested as he tried unsuccessfully to look peer around his arranged husband and see the bustling train station.

_Thump! thump! thump!_

Heero didn't even have to glance over his shoulder to know what that incessant noise was. "Shinigami. Stop wagging your tail. For one minute, please. And make sure you hide it."

The longhaired deity promptly made a disgruntled face at the side of his head by sourly pouting his lips and giving his jacket sleeve another impatient tug. "He did already. _Teishu_, he only wants to look around! Why don't you move over, _kudasai_?" Dressed in the concealing black cloak with a hem that hovered down below his knees and black robes neatly concealing his feet, Shini looked somewhat like a black shadow hovering behind him, though Heero might have described him differently; perhaps as a little black cloud hanging over his head.

"Shinigami just wants to see," Shini insisted in a half-whine, nudging against the young Japanese man's shoulder with his chin.

When his Teishu didn't move or even respond, he adopted another stubborn expression and began pushing his way through. Before he could wedge his cherub-shaped face between his arm and the doorframe, Heero abruptly moved from the doorway, causing the Angel of Death to stumble forward with a squeak. He caught himself on the guardrail that fenced in the platform, but still looked sharply over to the mortal in a fluster.

"_Oi, Teishu_! Not nice!" he grumbled.

However, the complaint seemed to fall on a pair of selectively deaf ears—the mortal man had already jumped the rail, and made nary a sound while doing it. Waiting expectantly on the marble boarding platform, Heero simply arched an eyebrow and balled his fists in his jacket pockets while he waited patiently for the deity to follow him. Those close enough would have noticed the corner of his mouth tweaking slightly in amusement. Shinigami stalked up to the guardrail, still flushed red and pouting, and looked unhappily down at his arranged husband, expectant of an apology, at least.

"That was not nice, _Teishu_," Shini reprimanded again. He tried his best to look intimidating, though his bright face didn't exactly radiate the image of anger. Had he been able to anyway, Heero most likely wouldn't have been frightened—he wasn't in the habit of fearing of Gods of Death who were prone to bursting out in tears and clinging to their mothers. But that was beside the point. He was in a hurry to get home and out of this insane country. It made him think why anyone would volunteer for a reality show of any kind, if his troubles were any indication.

Heero simply turned to begin walking, pausing for a second to wait for the Shinigami. "Come on. Let's go."

Shini made a face. "_Oi_!" he drawled unhappily, still standing at the guardrail, facing the tracks from which they had just traveled on with a pout set across his face.

"I'm going to leave now," the mortal notified him finally, reshouldering his backpack as he turned completely around but did not move. He watched over that shoulder and looked up at the Angel of Death, knowing very well that Shini wouldn't remain indignant enough to be left behind. What, with him having the mind of child, that is. Slowly, he saw what he expected and the winged deity trudged up to the guardrail closest to the platform and swung over it easily, landing silently on the marble with his bare feet. His face, however, was still strung up in a pout.

It was strange to see a creature as him that had acted so young and childlike move so fluidly as he leapt easily over the rail and landed silently, despite wearing a heavy coat meant to conceal his large wingspan. Heero watched the Shinigami walk up to his side and turn that pout toward his face, and shook off the thought as Shini stopped beside him and stood silently for a moment.

"What?" Heero asked quietly, as the deity stared at him for a long, considering minute. As he was stared at, Heero noticed how evenly their eyes met, being of almost exact equal height. Finally, when the pout on his face didn't leave, he knew what the black-robed Angel of Death was pouting for.

"Sorry," the mortal said plainly. Apparently, Shini was just childish enough to hold a grudge about not apologizing, though he had lived for more than a thousand years.

His face instantly softened, then lit up in a smile. "That's all right! Where are we going now, _Teishu_?" Shini asked vibrantly, clamping quickly onto the arm of his jacket without need of invitation and looking around at the commuters bustling back and forth around them like many opposing river currents. "To your home, no? In Edo? How far are we from Edo, Teishu? Shini is not sure if he can fly much with both of the two of us," he rambled on, tugging playfully on his sleeve as Heero began walking toward the front of the station; his destination the street that ran in front of it. "He hears that Edo is not like Shini used to know—is it correct all the samurai and shoguns have left on a big boat? _Okasan_ said that they _de-part-ed_, but he knows not why they would leave on a ship? They should stay in Nihon, should not they?"

"I think she meant they departed, as in dying."

Shini blinked curiously at him, as if he'd just remarked the sky had fallen yesterday, and he had missed it. "Oh." Heero kept walking, and when he glanced over his shoulder, Shini started up again to keep at his side. "What else is different, _Teishu_? He has not been between here for a long time, and the last time that he was, he did not see much things other than _umi_ and beef on the hoof."

There was a momentary peculiar look from Heero straight across into those godly violet eyes, and he made a tiny grimace as he tried to decipher the strange and clearly American phrase. He understood that _umi_ meant horse, but it took him a moment to realize that he actually meant cattle, not literal beef on the hoof. While he was thinking, the black-winged deity had adopted a vaguely gloomy expression as he said, "The last time Shinigami lived with a mortal, that is."

Heero grunted once, then glanced towards the door. They were approaching the glass doors and marble arches that let in the morning rays and the men and women of San Francisco who were departing and arriving, including one deity and a mortal trapped in wedlock. His hands were still balled up in his pockets, and the Shinigami had his arm latched around his, looking like a distorted version of arm candy, with horribly tousled hair and a long, oversized black cloak that dragged along the marble along with his original black silk robes. Heero didn't make another comment, and when Shini didn't elaborate on what he had meant, he assumed that the issue was dropped. Still that unhappy look remained, as he seemed to be wrapped up in his own thoughts. Heero looked one last time at him, then finally pushed it from his attention and ignored it as he walked through the marble arch out onto the steps.

Leading out from the train station was a short strip of pavement running through a parking lot and in front of the steps that led out to the main road, where early morning commuters were already beginning to experience a few slow spots in traffic, going by in their assorted, multi-colored sedans and SUVs. Of course, Heero had lived for twenty-five years on Earth and he had seen vehicles before—he didn't give traffic a second thought beyond making sure not to be struck by it, normally, like any other human being. He was already glancing around for a taxi when he began stepping down the steps and felt his elbow suddenly free from the Shinigami's arm.

Heero stopped once he felt the deity stop behind him, and looked flatly back up to him. He stood one step up, gaping quietly out at the road above his husband's head and his tangled and unbound hair tossing around in the wind. "Wow," he croaked.

The mortal narrowed his eyes at the road, where Shini was staring, then back to Shini himself. "What?" he asked.

Without a word to justify his awestruck state, he simply pointed at the road again, bringing the other hand to nibble nervously on the hem of his generous sleeve.

Heero stepped up level with him and gave a little disapproving frown as he eased the sleeve he was chewing on away from his mouth and again asked vaguely what he was looking at. Shini didn't respond as he gaped quietly, looking around at the surroundings foreignly, and Heero lifted an eyebrow in his humdrum manner. "Let me guess. You've never seen any kind of automobile before, have you."

"He has never seen so many horseless carriages in one place before!" he squeaked. "We saw one once when we snuck into Harvest, but it was of the oil driller—is this a place all of Nobles? How many are there, _Teishu_?"

Who was the we,' Heero had to wonder silently to himself.

"They're called cars," he explained dully, though the droning tone didn't discourage the Shinigami in the slightest. "And they're expensive, yes, but today most people own them. There's too many to count. They're used for travel purposes now, instead of horses."

"Oh," Shini whispered, his eyes still scanning the roads quietly. The curt explanation of the massive transition from horses to motorized machines that kicked off the Industrial Revolution in America and in turn, the remainder of the world, that Heero had given him sank in slowly, and he couldn't decipher whether the sad expression had seeped back in. It was masked by a strangled smile as the deity shook his head in astonishment and said lowly, "Guess much has become very different since then, much more than Shini must realize."

Heero stood there without a word, unsure of how to react to his arranged husband in the situation, then again found himself shaking it off in light of something more important, like getting both himself and an Angel of Death onto the earliest flight possible and returning to his home in Tokyo. He silently took the Shinigami by the wrist, clamping down on the heavy fabric of the concealing cloak, and guided him down the stairs, casually flagging a green and white taxicab as he did so. Shini followed him only with a little squeak of surprise as he was pulled down the stairs, then looked rapturously at the automobile that stopped for them at the curb and purred steadily as it idled.

"Are we going inside?"

"Yes," Heero sighed dutifully.

Shini paled slightly as he pointed. "You mean, Shini is actually allowed to ride in something such as this? Actually? He is definitely not one of your mortal nobility—he is allowed?"

"No, I'm just planning on smuggling you in the trunk," Heero ground out dryly, opening the back door with the hand that was not tugging his terminally curious husband along behind him. He was completely unexpecting of the loud, happy sound of the Shinigami yelping ecstatically and the equally overjoyed arms he tossed around his shoulders. He squeezed tightly for a second and let his nose settle into his back between his neck and shoulder. Heero staggered slightly, but the black-winged god giggled, let go, enthusiastically clamored inside, and promptly began examining the seats and windows with his fingers, nose, and tongue. He had pressed his palms against the far window and had begun curiously licking it by the time Heero was able to slip inside and slam the door. He was far too irritable in the morning to even consider trying to control someone, something like Shini, and he simply leaned back and groaned out, "To the nearest airport, please."

The driver apprehensively cranked his neck around to glance at the seemingly normal young man with long hair in a heavy black cloak happily lapping at the window and sniffing the tiny metal ashtray built into the handle bar like an investigative dog. He looked at Heero, leaning back against the seat with a sigh, and obliged without asking if the other passenger might have been dropped a few times as an infant. "Alright, mister."

===

"Where is the watering hole, Teishu? Is that it? Is it meant to look so ragged? Why are there no horses anymore? And the smoke emitting from them—_auto-mo-bines_, was it? —what does that smell of?" Shini rattled off eagerly. "_Oi, _look there! _Kono wa_?" The deity cheeped brightly as he spotted something blurring by through Heero's window and dove over to the other side of the car to catch a glimpse of it, crawling clumsily over his lap in the process.

"Hey, Shin—!" Heero growled, as his kneecap jabbed uncomfortably into his thigh and the tangled chestnut hair lying across his back swung into his face, still filled with bits of leaves and rather putrid Darkness oil. The wind circulating into the taxi through the crack in his window didn't help much to disperse the smell, though, because the God of Death quickly had lost interest in whatever he had spotted. Now he was fascinated with scraping at the window with a hand and trying to squeeze his face out through a three-inch gap between the glass and the frame. He was still rambling curiously on and also incoherently because his face was pinched as he tried to squeeze through unsuccessfully. He was moving clumsily across Heero's lap and the overwhelmed mortal was beginning to growl audibly without words, opening his mouth when he was jabbed with an errant elbow or knee.

"Get off me," Heero warned. "Sit in your own damn seat! Please!"

"Oohhhhh oh!" Shini made an awestruck sound as a neon-lit gentleman club went by. "Topless dancers'? Only existent from the waist down, are they? Were they injured in a war?"

"Shinigami!"

"Hey," the driver announced suddenly, "could you two knock it off some, huh? I'm trying to concentrate on driving, if you don't mind. The longer you make that racket, the more you're gonna owe me."

Shini again tried wedging his face outside and this time found his cheekbones pinched painfully. He failed instinctually, as if the window was actually the jaws of some predator that had lain in wait, and kicked the back of the driver's seat sharply in his struggle to escape.

"Hey, what did I just say?! You two want out right here, or what?"

"No, the airport, please," Heero replied hurriedly. "Shinigami, what the hell are you doing? Stop it, or we'll be—"

"MMnnNHHHmmphnmeee!" Shini whimpered unhappily as his elbow slipped from the windowsill and crashed loudly against the automatic window control. He yelped as he sharply banged his elbow bone, but his face slipped out finally and he fell heavily back into Heero's lap, causing him in turn to let out a sharp grunt of surprise as he felt the forked tip of the deity's tail wedge into the top of his thigh, even through the fabric of his cloak.

He automatically jerked his leg and caused the deity to loose his balance. Shini clumsily tumbled back onto the seat, head inches from landing unpleasantly on the door handle and his legs knocking the ceiling before falling back down across his husband's lap. He was cradling his bashed elbow in his hand and squeezing his eyes shut tight to avoid the urge to cry in the face of such acute pain.

"_Teishu!_" he whined shrilly, significantly louder than what was acceptable to mortal ears, writhing theatrically on the seat.

"Keep your voice down, and stop moving, otherwise we'll be kicked—" Heero hissed through his teeth, unable to nurse the pain in his leg with him draped over it.

"That's enough shit! Both of you, out!"

===

Another taxi soon was flagged down, and this time, Heero made sure, with the utmost effort, that Shini sat obediently in his seat and managed to control the strangely primal instincts he had to inspect every nook and cranny of one of the few horseless carriages he'd ever been in. Despite all the militaristic training he had and every uptight inclination in him, it still took quite a lot of work just to make sure Shini didn't leap up into the front seat as soon as he spotted the numbers spinning slowly on the dash. He was sure that the glass between them and driver wouldn't have stood a chance if Shini had truly wanted to get up front, and he wasn't sure he was mood to pay for damages done to a taxi cab. No, on second thought, he was absolutely sure he was not.

Settling such a feverishly curious deity took a little snapping, a little warning or threatening, a sharp tone, and a hand wrapped tightly around his. Shini was very sitting close to Heero's side, so he was unable to move without him sensing the motion before it was made. If he even thought of trying to do something, he would know about it. It didn't make Heero very happy to be doing so, though, and there were a few moments when the deity's hand nervously petted along his own that made him frown. He hadn't had any kind of breakfast yet, and he dismissed the lightness in his stomach with that condition. Right. He'd grab a cheap coffee inside the airport.

That was if they could make it without further incident. He only hoped that the deity with the mind of a child and an immortal appetite for sating his curiosity would know better than to run out in front of traffic, or annoy anyone visibly holding firearms.

He had informed the female driver that they would like the nearest airport, while dragging along the black-clad, disheveled deity that looked almost like a young man, if not for the distinct inhuman color of his eyes. The driver had visibly noticed when she had turned her head to look at the passengers she was receiving. But she hadn't made a comment on it, but seemingly gone onto the pleasant small-talk chatter she must do for all her customers. Heero only realized now how brightly violet they were, and how average people would notice it right away. He had been dealing with the Shinigami for a few days, and because he had been so stressed, he'd simply grown to accept it. But now he began wondering if others would notice how otherworldly just the Shinigami's eyes could be.

While Heero sat silently, watching the meter spin and clamping down on Shini's hand unrelentingly, and thought to himself, the Divine sitting beside him looked quietly out the window. After watching the strange, bright, and alien mortal surroundings blur by him for a few minutes, his curiosity waned and he glanced back over to his arranged husband. His lips were dipping down in a rueful frown, and he waited until Heero felt his eyes on his face and turned his head to look at him flatly.

Heero asked him, "What?" with a lift of his eyebrow.

"He's sorry," Shini mumbled quickly. "Sorry that he made you and he become ejected by the taxes man. Sorry he caused trouble."

"You mean taxicab," Heero corrected plainly, his voice betraying nothing of the frustration he had felt, standing on the curb with a mewling husband nursing his bashed elbow and trying to flag down another taxi, less ten dollars of fare for his trouble. Shini nervously rubbed his thumb against Heero's hand as he continued ashamedly, head bowed slightly, and genuinely regretful of what he'd done. Though he really couldn't control himself sometimes when surrounded by such new and fascinating things, he knew that he had done something wrong and done something to make his Teishu even more frustrated than he had seemed before. Shini hated it when he looked so unhappy. Heero had even struck a strange-looking pole with a red flag named Expired after they had been kicked out of the first cab, and he had known then that he definitely was not happy.

"Sorry he didn't listen to you," the Shinigami added solemnly. "Very sorry."

That made him pause for a moment, and consider how many times he had ever heard of a god of any kind apologizing to a human being for not listening to them. His textbooks, all the myths and legends he had heard gave a collective, "Never." After a second of silence, Shini looked away and did nothing but sit quietly and nervously twitch in his arranged husband's grip. Heero gave a vague, noncommittal grunt, commenting on nothing in particular, and watched out the window as they drew closer and closer to the airport. His hand had gone almost into a numb state and he didn't notice when Shini's hand squeezed tightly.

Twenty American dollars later, the cab pulled to a stop in the unloading zone just outside the majestically modern glass doors and steel rafters of the airport. Just as Heero was stepping out of the backseat and circled around to pay the driver with hardly a word, the inhuman being curiously peered out the open door and craned his head up. The air filled with the roar of an airplane lifting off as scheduled, and Shini automatically began to open his mouth in wonder and step out to get a better view. He went around the trunk and began backing up so that he could see over the top of the building they were parked in front of. His mouth making an awestruck o', he walked backwards without Heero noticing at first. Just as he started to see the wingtips from over the top of the building, something obnoxiously loud began to bellow at him.

Shini glared at the oncoming car, wondering if all of the _auto-mo-beels_ made such horrible noises and thinking that he definitely preferred horses, any day—

"_Shimatta_!" Someone snapped at him angrily, and just as the child-minded deity probably would have found himself suddenly all to acquainted with a stranger's windshield, the someone lunged out and yanked him back the arm. He was pulled out of the middle of the road in a fast blur, and as soon as he was jerked to a stop, he could decipher a very agitated, "Damn it, Shinigami!" Heero's hand was clenched around his arm hard enough to leave five neat bruises, and he was panting as he glared at the Angel of Death.

"_Teishu_?" The Shinigami cracked a desperate smile and tried to chuckle weakly. He automatically went straight to apologizing—figuring out he'd done something again wasn't hard. "Heh-heh. _Gomen_ _nasai, Aruji_?"

"You nearly got run over!"

"He knows," he said, chewing on a finger, "He's sorry. He didn't mean to."

Heero slowly caught his breath, and released the frightening grip on the sheepish deity, and tried to shrug off the adrenaline that had just spiked his system. He took a moment to regain control and jabbed suddenly at the blacktop beneath them.

"See the road?"

"Yes?" Shini said meekly, following Heero's pointed finger.

"Whenever you see a car anywhere near one, pay attention so you _don't_ get hit. No, on second thought, just stay out of the road, period," he added in a haggard sigh. But seconds later his frustration hardened his tone. "Matter of fact, it's best you stay right where I can see you. And no more trouble." With that he took the Shinigami sharply by the hand and led him up to the automatic doors.

When both their weights settled on the sensors placed under the plastic mat below them, the steel-rimmed doors slid apart to let them through, and the terminally curious Shini slowed and let out a sound of astonishment before he was dragged fully inside. Heero's chest was pounding, and he had to admit, he had been afraid that the daydreaming young God of Death would have really been struck and possibly injured by that tiny red Dodge Neon, and he hated the sensation of being afraid. Especially for such a ridiculous reason.

He was the successor to the God of Death, wasn't he? How could he die? Even if he did happen to go down in a traffic accident, he had the feeling he would simply jump up and unflatten himself. Heero sighed to himself, aching for a coffee, and glanced up at the massive board of flights as they entered and checking for the earliest that would take them to Tokyo, or as Shini knew it, the New Edo.

"Alright," he grunted. "Hurry up, and we can catch the next flight. It's leaving in fifteen minutes, so keep moving"

Shini let off a low whistle, and staggered slightly on his robes when Heero quickly sped up, to make sure nothing too sparkly or shiny caught his attention.

"Ooooh, _Teishu_—"

"I said, _keep moving_."

===

Luckily, he was able to keep the peeping Shinigami under control long enough to find a relatively short line for two tickets back to his home in Tokyo, where black-winged men and white-winged domineering women didn't happen to fall out of the sky. He had scanned the crowd carefully, skimming over the people and their luggage until he had found one that was about to serve a new customer, and pulled Shini assertively along with him. He wasn't concerned about having enough money for two tickets. He was, however, more concerned if he would have the perseverance to last a long flight with the Shinigami he currently had in tow.

He was still making the standard, "Ooh"s and "Aaah"s, but at least he had quit lunging at even the most normally mundane of things. His wrist still ached a little.

As soon as the businessman in front of him smiled, nodded, and accepted his ticket, then picked up his baggage and walked off, Heero tugged Shini up to the counter along with him, making sure he could keep a tight grip on his hand and prevent him from running off after another person in a baseball cap. The polite, overly-smiley woman at the counter had a few traces of crow's feet at the corners of her friendly eyes and a distinct smoker's tint to her teeth, Heero noticed, as he ordered two tickets for the 7:30 flight to Tokyo in his deadpan tone.

"Alright, sir—any preference where you would like to sit?" asked politely, as she began typing effortlessly and smiled at him at the same time. "There are still many window seats available if you would like them."

"Yes, sure," Heero said.

"Very good, sir. Will you be paying with—"

Suddenly, Heero felt the Shinigami nudge his way past his shoulder and beam brightly at the semi-startled young girl. "Hello, Rita," he crowed happily, taking pride in discovering her name on her polished nametag, and being able to read it. "Riii-ta. It's a very pretty name! It would be nice seeing you in Hell someday! Shini hopes so, very much so. We could be friends!"

As soon as the lady began to go deathly pale, pale enough to start feeling around for the alarm beneath her counter, Heero quickly pushed him aside and tried to amend flatly, "He's from out of town. He was dropped on his head as a child. Three flights of stairs." The paying and the printing out of the tickets was done in a very nervous silence on the polite woman's part, and she could only fake a shaky smile at best. Once there were a pair of tickets granting him passage back to a country that seemed a little more sane, Heero quickly left the girl at the counter with a compensating generic smile. He'd found that if he presented most of the opposite sex with even the least enthusiastic of his smiles, they seemed to cooperate much better in most instances.

This was one of him, he decided. He dragged the Shinigami away toward their appointed gate quickly, and hoped that the woman hadn't been startled enough to call security. He mentally sighed to himself to remind Shini that most mortals didn't appreciate an invitation to Hell, despite the best of intentions. There was a lot he needed to learn, if he even wanted to survive stepping out the door. Heero didn't know where the Angel of Death had spent his time while living on Earth, but he knew it couldn't have been anywhere civilized—he had attacked a bag of luggage on wheels, claiming that it looked like a demon loose from the realm of Hades.

===

_Kono_ _wa_? = What's that?

_Shimatta_! = Shit!

_Gomen nasai_ = Very sorry, or forgive me.

[[[A/N]]] Alright, you'll all have to forgive me for this hot-off-the-press chapter which is probably pimpled with mistakes--but again I am going on a long trip and I won't be able to post for a few days. I know! I literally came home from the cabin [Which was a motherducking blast! I even got a tan!] and sat down to eat dinner when a trip to Milwaukee in two days was sprung on me. Arrgh. I hate it. I wonder if anyone else experiences the horror of a family who believes they tell you that they've told you about something like a trip, but it turns out you only find out about it when they start loading their bags? It's grody. Yes, grody. Eventually, I promise, Shini and Heero will get on the plane, though it's taken me two chapters longer than I expected it too. Thank you, kiss kiss, I've got to go! Jesus, is there anyplace I'm not going this week?!


	12. Fear of Death, Fear of Flying

Chapter 12

Fear of Death, Fear of Flying

Heero could sympathize with all the frequent fliers and all the business men and women who constantly shuttled back and forth on the whim of their bosses. Passing through all the security checks was tedious, stressful, and at times, even ridiculous, and the recent skirmishes with a few lone colony terrorists acting out hadn't done anything for the Earth Sphere security but make it much more paranoid. He hadn't enjoyed the process himself, but he would have paid just about any imaginable amount to be in the past, when he didn't have to get an Angel of Death past the metal detectors. As they were walking up to the metal detector and coming in sight of a relatively short line, they had less than ten or eleven minutes before the boarding of their plane would end, and they would inevitably be stuck there until the next flight came around. Heero didn't want to consider how he would spend the time waiting and keeping a very short leash on his otherworldly passenger.

Considering the thought of being stuck in the terminal until who knew when if they did happen to miss their flight, Heero took a second to think about how much patience it had taken him not to forfeit the deal he had made with the Goddess of Love. Had he not started thinking of it as just an initiative to be accomplished, he might have hesitated to pull the Shinigami out of traffic and harm's way. Thinking of it as some sort of torturous mission made him concentrate on finishing it, if only to be free of the responsibility after the five days. If he missed that flight, he wasn't sure if he would be able to keep himself together and pull through the mission he'd reluctantly accepted. He might leave Shini in the airport, he was feeling so over whelmed and just plain exhausted. That brought on the thought of, if the billions of human beings that had come before him could not escape Death, then how did he think he was going to when he knew it personally?

He should have never left home in the first place, he sighed internally, as he had to pull the Shinigami away from tentatively trying to break the glass on the vending machine they passed by and tugged him steadily along toward the metal detector. He eyed it silently, wondering if there was anyway to pass through without any trouble. Shini quickly trotted up to his side and kept up, so that he didn't need to be dragged along, and smiled warmly at everything and nothing in particular in his harmless fashion. He looked over to his affectionately dubbed _Teishu_, then straight past him at what lay beyond him.

They were quickly passing by the waiting area, filled with rows and rows of plain black seats and some of those filled with weary travelers all waiting to leave, as they were about to. Not particularly noticeable, Heero thought, but the broad window letting the morning light in was attractive enough for steel and panes of glass. Shini hesitated in his step a bit and craned his head to see all the mortals sitting, some haggard and some impatient, some busy typing on a laptop or tiredly consuming their coffee and doughnuts. Of course, after an entire terminal of the same behavior, Heero didn't pay it any attention and kept on walking until his arm was completely extended an was unable to keep moving. He looked over his shoulder at the Shinigami, taking in the sight of the commuters but without the usual look of wonderment.

His hand was still wrapped around the Shinigami's wrist, and he gave it a tug. "Shini, let's keep going," the Japanese man said flatly, already turning around to start walking.

Again, he didn't move, and again, Heero turned his head around to look at his arranged husband, this time much more impatiently and with a stronger tug. "We're going to miss our flight," Heero warned bluntly, only hoping that he would obey so that they wouldn't become stranded in a San Franciscan terminal until another flight became available. He wasn't sure when that would be, and he certainly didn't intend to find out on this particular trip.

"What are they all doing there?"

Heero gave a longsuffering sigh. With all the mundane explanations he'd been giving, he was beginning to feel like either a schoolteacher or a cheesy instructional video that might teach the brain dead about everything in the world. Or that could just be his exasperation catching up with him. "They're waiting to leave," he informed plainly, giving the deity's wrist another guiding tug in the right direction, toward the metal detector. Heero hadn't even begun to think how they were going to get through security without being stopped, what with the Shinigami in such a suspicious looking state of dress with black robes dragging on the floor and long, matted hair.

Luckily, the Shinigami decided to relent a little and allowed himself to be slowly pulled along, still transfixed quietly on the sight. "They look very tired, _Teishu_—"

"Just like me," he muttered beneath his breath.

"And very unhappy. Are they there for purpose?"

"Yes."

Shini made a face. "Well, that's very strange."

Heero only grunted this time, already disconnecting himself from the conversation to focus on the more urgent issue of getting them both to the metal detector in time to board their plane. He had begun tugging strongly this time, pulling the Shinigami along in little bursts, when he heard the black-winged deity say, "You mortals are very strange indeed. You create a Purgatory, then remain there willingly. He may never understand you, Shini thinks."

It took a second for Heero to realize that the sound of a short laugh had come from him, at the Shinigami's innocuous comment that the terminal was something like Purgatory, and that he had actually found it amusing. He cautiously looked back at the winged deity in his tow to make sure that he'd actually said that, and felt the brief smile leave his face. The Shinigami was still too wrapped in trying to contemplate the strange behavior of the people between Heaven and Hell to notice that he had actually laughed, and Heero used it to his advantage. He managed to get Shini to start walking again and soon found himself at the silver arch of the metal detector, already shedding his backpack in preparation to throw it on the scanner.

It was inevitable that sooner or later that the deity in his tow would notice the alien item before him and it was inevitable that he would ask his mortal husband about it. "_Teishu_? What is it?"

"Don't worry," he said, gently tugging him forward by his wrist along with him when he felt the Shinigami balk slightly at the sight of the people passing through it. "Just walk through. It's only a metal detector, it shouldn't pick anything up on you."

However, Shini still didn't completely trust the strange thing, and especially not the wary eyed security guards, and he showed it with a sour little peep of his tongue. "He will say it should not touch him. It looks like a thief," he said lowly, watching the people pile their luggage on the conveyer belt and letting it pass through a curious looking metallic box. "It will not steal from Shini," he warned grumpily, letting out another silent raspberry and latching onto Heero's arm as if to use him as a shield if the machine suddenly took offense and struck back at him. There were a few other people watching the exchange, but few knew what to think of a seeming young man who feared a metal detector.

"It's not going to take anything. It's just a machine," Heero said flatly, swinging his backpack onto the conveyer belt and shaking off the Shinigami's clinging arms as he began to walk through the arch.

The Angel of Death instantly made a strangled face and opened his mouth to loudly warn his husband not to give his parcel to the thieving, belying machine, but before he could get past the T' in _Teishu_!' there was a warm hand clamped over his mouth, sufficiently muffling him.

Getting the sinking feeling he'd again done something wrong, judging from the pointed look he received from Heero and his stormy blue eyes, Shini quickly shut himself up by clamping both of his palms over his mouth dramatically. He stood absolutely still and simply watched as Heero sighed, managed to pull his hands away from his mouth and the ridiculous pose he was making, and completely ignored the increasing amount of strange looks that were coming their way. It wasn't easy, knowing that almost all the attention was focused on him and his bizarre companion, but it was the thought of finishing an initiative that kept his composure.

"Just watch what I do, alright?" Heero asked quietly, turning slightly as he waited for the Shinigami's affirmative.

Again, the deity had found it convenient to vent his anxiety by biting on his sleeve and managed to nod out an uncertain answering, "_Hai_, _Teishu_." His eyes followed the mortal as if he were a lifeline of some kind, watching him carefully as he passed effortlessly through the security checks and the metal detector that caused so much suspicion in the young Angel of Death, and darkened when he realize that he was next in line to pass through it. He might have stood his ground like a mule, if not for the look in his husband's eyes that ordered him forward. Heero even retrieved his bag and turned to leave, pressuring the Shinigami even more to start moving.

Shini made a pouting frown as he balled up his fists and stalked straight through the metal detector, beneath several suspicious gazes directed at the unusual, heavy black garb he was wearing and possibly hiding weapons in. Heero waited anxiously as Shini stepped cautiously through, still making a very unhappy face at the machine he believed wanted to steal from him. He knew that if he tripped the alarm and was asked to take off his cloak, things would not be good. He let out a deep breath when the Shinigami stepped through and the red light did not instantly go off. He even waited a second, if the response was delayed, but still nothing.

He sighed and went up to take his husband by the arm, who was shrinking away from the silver arch and hissing at it, and quickly took him off to their boarding gate with no more than seven minutes to spare.

Boarding the plane should have been similar, Heero thought, but it surprisingly was much smoother than initially getting to their appointed gate. Where before there had only been a fierce curiosity and even an apprehension of all the new mortal things he was seeing, now there was just a buzzing excitement in Shini to reach the home of his new époux pushing him forward. He looked at things and simply gave the standard "Ooh," and "Ah," before moving along, to Heero's immense relief.

His favorite new thing seemed to be the corridor leading to the airplane, where he loved skipping up and down, even racing to the door and then going back to tag Heero playfully on the arm and run back to the door where the stewardess was standing, grinning in victory. Heero walked by briskly, avoiding eye contact with the girl as she led them to their seats, leaning back once to grab Shini by the hair and pull him along when he tried to turn around and start running up and down the corridor again. He gave a shrill little, "Eep!" as protest, but Heero was indeed strong enough to pull him along. He pitied Shini's former caretakers who might not have had the physical endurance to keep the troublesome deity in check.

He pitied himself a little as well, but he didn't know what good it would be just complaining to silently to himself. Only five more days and he'd be free of an insane divine burden, one that had been forced on him and then cemented in otherworldly marriage.

This stewardess luckily had no name tag to be seen, and it spared her from a well-meaning greeting from the Angel of Death, and surprisingly, Shini only gave her a beaming welcoming smile as he brushed by her and dove past both of them into the window seat as soon as she escorted them to it. He seemed to have certain affection reserved for windows, and as soon as he crawled over the armrest, nearly tripping on his cloak in his hurry, he stared transfixed out onto the runaways that stretched out in the morning sun. Looking almost like a child enraptured by a television screen, Shini curled his legs up next to him on the seat and put both hands on the windowsill, trying in vain to try and see the entire airport through one small window in the thirteenth row.

The stewardess, like most of the others that day, gave the concealed Angel of Death a slight look, but Heero gave her in return a thanking smile that sent her back on her way. As she left, Heero turned to look back at the Shinigami, eagerly pressing his nose to the glass, with his carry-on backpack in hand. When he was mildly sure he wouldn't be clamoring over any seats to go after whatever caught his eye, shiny or not, he opened the overhead compartment and packed his bag inside. He'd brought little to entertain himself with on the flight home, so it was it was easier to put it all out of the way. Both out of harm's way and out of the Shinigami's path of investigation.

As he closed the compartment he wondered what would distract him from the curious—not to mention never-ending—questions of the deity, or it really might drive him over the edge. One could only explain the most mundane of things so many times in the morning without a drop of coffee before it started to get to you.

As the latch clicked shut, Heero let his arms down and looked at the Angel of Death that just happened to sit a few feet away from him. He was mildly surprised to see that Shini had finished licking the window and making faces against the glass and just looked pleasantly back at him, still curled up on the seat. Just smiling in return. No pleas of "What's that?" or "What does that do, _Teishu_?" At least for the time being.

Heero gave him an almost wary look before taking his place in the seat beside the smiling God of Death. He had expected him to instantly drown him in curiosity as soon as he sat down, but he simply widened his smile, then laid back in his seat. He rubbed his back theatrically into the seat and stretched his fingers on the armrests, reclining into his chair as if he was a king newly coming to power and testing out his throne. He even made a slight purring noise to go along. Heero snorted to himself, then relaxed in his own seat and took to staring at the ceiling and listening to the background sound of the other passengers finding their seats. Just as he felt his eyelids dip heavily over his eyes, the voice of the Shinigami brought him back to reality.

"_Teishu_?" Shini asked brightly, twisting around so he sat completely facing the mortal man. "Are you awaking?"

That earned him a flat, half-lidded look. "I am now."

"Oh, good." He grinned despite the unhappy tone his husband had so subtly used, and folded his arms and laid his head sideways on his elbow. "Shini was wondering about what New Edo is like. He was there once before, and he wants to know what's different. You were birthed and raised there, were you not, _Teishu_?"

Well, it was better than bouncing up and down ridiculously and pointing and yanking on his sleeve, Heero thought to himself. Though it wasn't the most grammatically correct, it was the Shinigami's way of starting a conversation—asking some kind of question about something. And usually if it wasn't about something directly in front of him, it was about Heero. He nodded at the deity, letting out a soft sigh of tiredness as well.

"You are not wholly Nihonese [1], are you, _Teishu_?" He asked while staring straight into his very un-Japanese blue eyes.

Heero noted just how antiquated Shini's speech was, calling everything from Japan to Tokyo by its former and much older name. He even had to wonder if he'd heard of the Feudal Era, which had taken place hundreds of years ago while the islands had been in civil turmoil. He probably had little to no idea about the colonies being built out in space, either, unless Iria had kept him up to date. And considering how he hadn't even heard of things like luggage or airplanes, she probably hadn't.

He shook his head, replying, "No. My father was a Westerner."

"American?" Shini looked eagerly at him, his tail thudding dulling under his heavy cloak.

"He was a little bit of everything," Heero answered quietly, having trouble trying to picture his father's face after it had faded with time. Both his parents had died sometime ago, and without the framed picture of the two playfully stepping through the waves on a Japanese beach to refresh the images of their faces, his memory was beginning to mist over. That spread a tiny frown across his face. "But yes, he spent a lot of time in America. The Marine Corps. He was the one who taught me most of my English."

"And your mother?"

"Professor of Psychology, Kyoto. She was born there."

Heero half-expected the short answer to again spark another question, but the Shinigami simply blinked up at him from lying his head on his arms and gave a little, "_Aa_," of understanding. Still his long, unbound, and very tangled hair was knotted with a few scraps of leaves and laced here and there with lingering traces of Darkness oil, which had a tendency to smell like an odd combination of death and cabbage after a certain amount of time out in the sun. Shini smiled warmly up at him through his bangs, grinning almost as if he'd only just met him and forgotten all that had happened in the days before, tilting his head further as he spoke up again.

"In New Edo, _Teishu_—"

"Tokyo," Heero corrected plainly.

"Oh. Tokyo," Shini beamed, not even missing a beat or faltering in his flawless Divine's smile. The soft thud of his tail beating lazily came from under his concealing cloak. "Where do you live, _Teishu_?"

Unfortunately, if the curious deity was looking for an in-depth answer that might feed him information about his reluctant husband, he was disappointed. Heero answered very short and sweetly. "A house."

That brought a very sudden groan of exasperation from the Angel of Death who lifted his head, snorted over-exaggeratedly as he leaned forward and his hair flopped around him, and rolled his eyes almost laughingly at his mortal husband. "_Ayaaaa_," Shini keened out dramatically, "He already thought of that!" Whatever else the Shinigami had on his mind to express was cut short, as he became suddenly and absolutely absorbed in listening to the stewardesses give the standard lecture on safety procedures. He settled into his seat like he was settling down for a storytelling and listened raptly, imitating the flight attendants gestures even. Of course, Heero had no interest in listening, or participating either, for that matter, and leaned back and closed his eyes again hoping to catch whatever uninterrupted rest he could—he knew it would be a stressful, sleepless five days ahead.

His short-lived rest was plagued with sudden unbidden thoughts of his passed mother and father rising to the surface, after they had been neglected for so long, and it was interrupted once again by the inhuman being sitting beside him with the smile and innocence of a child but apparently enough might to conquer Hell in an instant. Shini was hovering beside him, smiling almost as if he'd done something as immature as scribble on his face with a marker while he slept, and Heero couldn't help but wear a wary frown for a minute.

"What?" he asked flatly. When the deity only gazed at him, the mischievous smile dimming a little, the Japanese man asked again, sharper than before. "What do you want? It's going to be a long flight. I'm trying to sleep."

"He is only wondering if you are lonely," the Shinigami said openly. "You're thinking about your parents." Heero narrowed his eyes slightly at him, and it spurred him to smile wider and brighter and add, "He can tell."

Heero snorted as he glanced, disgruntled, past the deity's tangled hair at the window to notice that they had somehow taken off without his noticing. Had he really been asleep, or just that wrapped up in his thoughts? If so, how long had the Shinigami been sitting there, watching him? It was slightly unnerving, how surely he had asserted he was thinking of his mother and father, both who had died when he had been only just reaching his teenage years. Yeah. Unnerving.

"Oh, really?" he monotoned in return, hoping his gravelly and unwelcoming tone would warn off any more prying questions. Something about the knowing smile from a God of Death wasn't all that comforting when dealing with the ghosts of his past. "I'm just fine," he replied dully, already looking away to the back of the seat in front of him to avoid looking at the deity's knowing face.

The Shinigami's voice softened. "Shini knows you've been living alone, _Teishu_. _Okasan_ told him that they had died thirteen years ago, and you have been alone since they passed between the worlds." While he still couldn't get his arranged husband to face him, the winged deity smiled warmly at the side of his face. He even snuck a hand onto his arm.

"It is alright. Shini knows what lonely is like, and he does not like it, either. Is worse than the bad luck that he has."

However well intentioned the little speech he gave was, it didn't make a dent in the one that Aphrodite had dubbed Arrogant Mortal as he grunted vaguely and continued to stare off somewhere else, wishing he could get a little sleep in peace and knowing that it probably wasn't going to happen. Especially now that an infant directly behind them had started crying. Heero sighed, but the Shinigami shifted around in his seat so that he could peer cautiously over the headrest at the source of the alien noise. He looked at the mortal woman holding the young child wrapped in a pink blanket and trying to soothe her to sleep over his knuckles, staring curiously at the tiny human. He'd very rarely seen such young infants, the youngest being a four-year old little girl in a sundress and hat while traveling with Iria in search of a caretaker.

Shini's eyes widened and he lifted his head up to peer down as the baby's wails slowly waned off, as it caught sight of the deity himself, tilting his head as he watched her in return. The mother noticed and made a relieved smile that her daughter had quit her sudden bout of crying.

"What's her name?" Shini peeped suddenly, taking on a bright smile.

"Allison Rose," the mother answered proudly. She offered a welcoming smile towards the stranger, knowing from the childish mannerisms he showed that he genuinely meant no harm. The strawberry blonde mother leaned down and gently took her tiny hand and talked gently to her, as the infant gaped in equal curiosity up at Shini as he did down at her, despite being over a thousand years old. The Angel of Death cautiously reached out when the infant pawed out at the air with her other tiny hand.

As soon as his hand got close, something fearful and almost dark cast over the infant's pale blue eyes and she began wailing again as the mother hurriedly pressed her to her chest and tried to soothe her again. Shini dropped back into his seat, turning a distinct shade of red from embarrassment and sunk deeper and deeper down. He wanted to disappear, but folding his arms over his head didn't quite do it.

Heero was looking very unhappy in his direction. "Shini!" he hissed quietly.

"He didn't mean to! He swears!" the Angel of Death groaned, mortified of what he'd done now. "Shini didn't mean to hurt the small mortal, he really didn't. He's so sorry, _Teishu_—He didn't mean to!" He clutched at his long, matted eartails and yanked at them agonizingly, squinting his eyes shut tight while the wailing in the background took what might have seemed like forever to calm.

"Shini, be quiet! Not so loud—" Heero warned under his breath as he leaned in, trying to shake off the increasing amount of eyes planted up on him and his whimpering otherworldly companion.

"He's so sorry!" the Shinigami apologized again, now covering his face with his hands and curling up into an even smaller, an even more ashamed little ball in his seat. "He didn't meant it!"

By now, there was a great deal of attention focused on him, and he could feel it piling up on him since he had shifted in his seat just enough to shield the sight of a seemingly human and very disheveled grown man whining and whimpering with his back. He'd always had a sense for feeling eyes upon him, and the wandering gazes of many had settled on the source of the sudden noises. Not all those eyes were very happy to hear the wails of an infant again, Heero could tell. He frowned to himself and put a hand on the Shinigami's shoulder, though it was hunched tightly against his cheek as he kept a tight hold on handfuls of his hair.

"I know you didn't mean to," Heero reassured stiffly. "It's probably just an accident."

The whimpering Angel of Death twisted his bowed head to reveal forerunning tears taking shape and blurring the inhuman, purple tint of his eyes. Bearing an unhappy frown and groaning to himself, he brought his knees tight up to his chest and again pulled on his long, matted hair. "Shini always does this!" he keened out in lament. "Always! Always always always!"

The frown soured further, and a look of impatient confusion crossed his face. "It's fine, Shinigami. Nothing happened," Heero said, trying, like the mother in the row behind him, to pacify the young, emotional bundle he was in charge of. For a second, he seemed to calm down, but eventually his face crumpled again and he buried it against the tops of his knees. That frown became a scowl, and Heero tried again. "You only scared her, you didn't do anything wrong. Babies cry."

Eventually, the eyes piling up on his back made him put his arm tentatively around the Shinigami's shoulder to comfort him enough to see that he quieted down. The deity automatically reached out when he felt the comforting touch and buried himself against his mortal husband's side, hiding his face in his shoulder while he rode out the last few mourning moments of his outburst. He mumbled into the fabric of Heero's jacket a pitiful apology.

"Shinigami is sorry, _Teishu_" He sniffled and rubbed his nose against his shoulder.

"It's fine," Heero asserted one last time, slowly losing his nervousness and tightening his arm around the black-winged deity's back. "Infants are easily scared. That's not your fault."

Shini groaned back, "No, it's not that. Because it is Shini's fault. All his fault." Pulling at his sleeve, he continued on, still visibly upset by the very minor commotion he'd caused. "It is because Shinigami is Shinigami. He frightened the tiny mortal. His fault."

"Most of people can sense that you're different from a normal human being, but that doesn't mean they know that you are who you are—"

Shini crumpled into an even smaller, more ashamed ball, ducking his head down. "He could have hurt her," he confessed in a tiny whimper, letting go of his _Teishu'_s arm and burying his head between his own. Long strands of leaf-matted hair spilled out over his leg as he had bowed his head forward shamefully and remained still.

Heero watched quietly, feeling the eyes of unwanted attention slowly drift away from them and listening as the sniffling of the God of Death faded into silence. He waited, then said gently, "Shini?" His arm on the back of the Shinigami twitched slightly, and Heero had the feeling that he was either too wrapped up in his own little guilt trip to notice him, or he'd somehow managed to cry himself to sleep already. He'd be surprised if it was the later, but on second thought, he might not be. Either way, the Shinigami didn't seem ready to act rational and probably needed some time of quiet. Whatever. That meant rest for him as well.

Heero leaned back, with one arm still slung over the deity's back, and thought quietly until Shini started to stir drowsily beside him. It'd been quiet a while, the time slipping by without much attention from the mortal, and even he felt his eyes were heavy and weary. As the Shinigami lifted his head groggily and sat back on his heels to rub the tenseness and exhaustion from his face, Heero resisted a yawn and glanced down at his watch. It'd been over three hours. He frowned at the ticking second hand, almost disbelieving, then realized he must have drifted off without noticing. Traveling west toward the string of islands named Japan, the skies were getting darker and it looked more and more like early morning.

Scratching the matted puff of brown bed-head on his skull that was his hair, Shini caught the yawning bug and let loose one of his own. He smacked his lips sleepily after he was finished and looked over to his arranged husband with eyes that were still too heavy or just too lazy to fully open and rimmed with red traces of crying. "_Oi_, _Teishu_, how much further is it to Tokyo?" he inquired sleepily.

Heero blinked the sleep out of his eyes and first raked the deity with an analyzing look. "Are you alright now? You were upset before," he said bluntly.

Shini blinked and sat back, regarding him almost as if he'd started singing the Little Teapot song {which had become one of the Angel of Death's favorites during a short stint staying with an medieval troubadour} and tilted his head to the side. "About what?" he asked innocently. He only had to look back into Heero's stare to refresh his memory, and his face drooped. "Oh, he remembers."

"Yeah," Heero grunted in return vaguely, watching the Shinigami intently. It amazed him that a being so seemingly harmless and innocent could really possess the unfathomable potential that Iria had described to him in the storage shed, that one so sensitive to all the strange things around him and his own blunders had the ability in him to slaughter the God of the Underworld and wage war on Heaven if it took his fancy. This Shinigami was definitely different from his brothers, Heero noted, his eyes sweeping from the mussed hair, blood-shot eyes, and miserable little pout set across his face.

"Are you okay?" Heero asked quietly.

With a few cautious looks over his shoulder, directed at the mother and child behind them, Shini bit his lip and asked his arranged husband, "He did not do any harm to the little mortal?"

"I don't think so."

"Sure?"

"Yes, she's fine," Heero almost growled.

He sniffled once and pawed at his nose with his sleeve, looking down at his other hand in his lap. "Then Shini thinks he is all right." The Shinigami allowed himself a moment or two to pat down some of his disheveled hair and calm himself down again, shifting in his seat to face forward. A second after that, a bright grin turned his way again. It also amazed Heero just how fast he could go back and forth from emotion to emotion, something any Shinigami would have no idea of.

"_Teishu_, how much further is it to Tokyo?" the young God of Death asked again.

The mortal man sighed quietly to himself, knowing just how long the flight would drag on—what seemed like forever. However, he knew that if he actually said that out loud, there was no telling how Shini would interpret it, no doubt spawning another string of questions he really wasn't in the best mood to answer nicely. "A ways," he said plainly. "I have no idea what the jet lag might be like, so we should probably get some sleep now. That is, if I can," Heero added under his breath lastly, a direct reference to the troublesome Shinigami. Looking dully over to his passenger, Heero started to explain that there were pillows for them, but was soon cut off.

"Alright, _Teishu_," Shini murmured obediently, nuzzling his nose against Heero's skin, finding itself a nest in the crook of his neck. Without his even noticing, he'd managed to slink an arm behind his back and lace fingers with the other hand, the other arm being draped over his stomach. In a single movement, he was pressed up tightly against the mortal's side without the intention of letting go anytime soon. It was obvious in the way he snuggled tight up against his shoulder and squeezed his arms tight when Heero instinctually flinched. He'd hardly seen the Shinigami move, or it had just really taken him by surprise.

"There is a pillow, you know," Heero said tensely, not moving an inch in the Shinigami's grasp. Parts of the dark, wing-concealing cloak now draped over him, and he was surprised to feel just how soft and warm they seemed to be. It hardly felt like any fabric he knew existed.

"Mmmm, no thanks," Shini said, his eyes already closed and drifting off.

For a long time after he had fallen away from consciousness and off to sleep, making a little buzzing snore every one in a while into the crook of his neck, Heero sat stiffly in his seat with one Shinigami wrapped tightly around him and definitely not letting go. He assumed that once had fallen to sleep, his grip might weaken, and he could gently lift his arms off of him, but the opposite was true. In his sleep, Shini would nuzzle and mumble incoherently at times and almost clutch him possessively at times when a particular dream would crease his brow and make his childish and innocent face marred with discomfort.

Did Divines really dream like mortals? Heero suddenly found himself asking.

After staring blankly at the God of Death's slumbering face for the longest time while absorbed in his deliberations and muddled thoughts, Heero felt his eyes once again reminding him of his own bone-deep exhaustion by politely weighing down his eyelids with what felt like two identical lead anvils and felt an overwhelming urge to just give in and get the rest he knew he probably would be wishing for once they were off the plane. There was a momentary, panicky thought of what the hell he was going to do once he actually got back to his homeland, but he was much too tired to want to think about it. With the Shinigami wrapped almost protectively around him, Heero had little choices for pillows, so he opted to lay his head on top of Shini's, breathed in the smell of his hair mingled with the unpleasant trace amounts of Darkness oil once, and welcomed sleep.

===

[1] Nihon is the Japanese name for Japan, so Nihonese is basically the same as Japanese. I thought it fit Shini's dialect a little better.

===

[[[A/N]]] Oh my. Sweet Sixteen. That's me, on the twentieth of August. Bleh, I feel so old. I know, I know, I'm probably getting a lot of harsh looks for that last statement, but you have to realize... I used to be nine. Now, I'm sixteen. Nine... sixteen. Young, then utterly ancient. That was back when I really didn't have a care in the world. Sadly, for my sixteenth birthday party, which was celebrated a few days early because of a family reunion I have to go to shortly after my real birthday, I did not have a big round, white and pink-trimmed cake and Jake Ryan sitting across from me, though I felt a little like Molly Ringwald. Ringwold? Ah, I can't remember. Nor do I care; I'm old now. I'm sorry this chapter took so long to get out. Really, I am. I've been too busy violating traffic laws and trying to figure out a way to get sideswiped that would just wipe that smug little smirk off my sister's face in the backseat. Ah, the wonders of a teenager driving.


	13. The Mortal and the Thundering Youkai

Chapter 13

The Mortal and the Thundering Youkai

Iria sat down in her voluptuous, womanly-looking office chair, skillfully toed off her red pumps, and kicked them across the room. The walk-in closet she'd insisted on installing automatically slid open and a pair of identical blonde-haired dress-sprites picked up each of her shoes and scurried off to put them away. She barely paid attention, though, as she sunk back in her chair and turned into a bag of bones from her long workday. Of course, most wouldn't consider shopping, flaunting herself, and playfully seducing whomever took her fancy as typical hard work, but as far as she was concerned, it was, and someone had to do it.

The Goddess also known as Aphrodite sighed breezily to herself, running a hand through her bright blonde hair. After a minute of toying with it, she decided to let it down and as she shook it out, she picked out an empty, rose-colored martini glass from the mini-bar beside her work desk and when she put it to her lips, it was full. The room itself was in the shape of an average-looking boardroom, but she'd tweaked it in a few places to best fit her interests. She didn't know why mortals didn't do the same with their dreary workplaces. It was different shades of passionate red, sweetheart pink, and white, and everything else in it followed suit, including the mini-bar, the walk-in closet, the spacious powder room filled with Divine makeup, and the balcony that overlooked her small allotted patch of Space and Time known affectionately as Valentine.

It was a haven for free love, sprites of all varieties, and the business of running love fortunes and romance that Iria governed. Of course, it was also an ideal Divines' honeymooning destination, but that didn't bother her in the slightest. She had all the more fun trying to break up newborn marriages with her talents in seduction.

She smirked to herself, and that reminded her she could change her shade of lipstick to pass a little of the time. Iria, now dressed in one of her favorite sheer white dresses, crossed her legs femininely as a shape-shifting dress-sprite hopped up onto her desk and took the shape of a mirror. She smiled, and leaned toward it, taking a tube of coral blush out of a jar, where there would be pens on a normal work desk.

There was a loud bang as Nadette, the stereotypically beautiful blonde secretary, burst through the door and it swung loudly against the wall. As dictated by her employer, she clad in all white, pristine and pressed. The only thing that would have distinguished her as a secretary, and not some typical heartbreaking, Parisian belle, were her stylishly nerdy librarian's cat eye glasses.

The loud sound didn't jolt Iria in the slightest, and she continued applying her lipstick flawlessly, not bothering to look up as she asked, "Is something wrong, Nadie?"

Half-breathless from the sprint she had taken up to Iria's office, on high-heels, no less, the secretary clutched a hand to her chest, and a small item in the other hand, keeping it a considerable distance from her body and suppressing tiny trembles that ran up and down her arm. "Miss Iria," she managed to address her politely between breaths. "There's been a package delivered for you."

The vain Goddess of Love couldn't have cared less about any parcel. Most of the time it was something radically boring having to do with her actual business, and she always asked Nadette to open them for her. If it were a decent gift, she'd keep it. If it was another fruitcake, she let her secretary keep it. Otherwise they all went into the round file or incinerator. Sighing and rolling her eyes in the mirror, she finished her top lip and was moving on to the bottom one when Nadette nervously held out the small, black lacquer box she'd been sent to deliver to the one known as Aphrodite.

"It's from, um"

She puckered her lips to her reflection and dramatically rolled her eyes again. "Just spit it out, darling. If it's from Hermes, just throw it out. I'm sick to catering to my brothers' and sisters' whims on their high and might mountain top. If they want me to stick someone with some cutesy arrow, then they can deal with that whiny brat of mine, Eros, not me—"

The blonde secretary swallowed nervously, afraid to hold the item in the palm of her hand any longer, lest it infect her or be filled with plaguing locusts. "Miss Iria Father Shinigami sent it."

Iria let out a half yelp as she accidentally bashed her forehead against the mirror and stood bolt up, and would have knocked over her chair if not for the dress-sprites who appeared out of nowhere to secure it. There was a ragged streak of lipstick extending from her lip to her cheek, and her whole face had gone sheet pale beneath her blush while she stared in disbelieve at the tiny black box. "You've got to be kidding me," she said incredulously. She wiped the smeared lipstick off with the back of her hand, while walking around her desk, eyes glued to the box.

Nadette shook her head anxiously, holding out the box and acting as if she were terrified of it, but also terrified that she had brought it into her forewoman's office. "That's what the messenger told me," she said breathlessly. "I tried to refuse it, but he just wouldn't allow it. It was a corpse, Iria—he sent a corpse to deliver it!"

Walking quickly up to her secretary, Iria spread a wary look across her face. "Don't get upset, now, Nadie," she comforted coldly, too busy carefully eyeing up the suspicious gift to make it genuine. She lifted an eyebrow and almost scoffed to herself. "Knowing him, he'd probably get the biggest kick out of getting us all in a fuss like this, instead of going through the trouble of killing us."

"Miss Iria," Nadette almost whimpered, looking very anxious and pale herself. "please don't say something like that! Now please, just take your package."

"Nadette, calm down," she sighed in return.

"I just don't want to hold it, Miss Iria. It's your package!" the secretary protested, flushing beneath her pale blush.

Despite having met Iria's infamous Shinigami son, she still was not as levelheaded in the face of such a powerful force of Death as her boss was, and even the mention of the eldest Shinigami could have made her nervous. Besides that, Father Shinigami was notorious for very rarely giving out items to other Divines, or even socializing with them—making the little black lacquer box all the more suspicious. And him being the eldest God of Death, there could have been anything inside of it, from a swarm of scorpions to the robes of Krishna [1].

When her paling secretary tried to jab the box into Iria's hands, she was shaking too much to be fast enough. Iria took a wary step backward, still giving it an appraising look underneath her blood red eyeshadow. "Did the messenger say anything about what it was?"

"He couldn't say much, Miss Iria. He was a rotting corpse."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Oh."

The secretary opened her mouth and at first only made a few awkward sounds, shaking her head. "Please, Iria, I can't—"

"_Fine_," she sighed hurriedly, putting out her hand. "Give that thing to me before you pass out on my new silk rug or something."

Still struggling not to tremble to much, she hurriedly forced the lacquer box into her employer's hands and quickly began wringing her hands nervously, swearing in paranoia she felt something sinister going up her arms and into her veins. Although Iria would have told her if she'd sensed any sinister energy on the outside of the box, her secretary still had a very delicate constitution and a hypochondriac tendency that aggravated that. The blonde Goddess of Love cradled the small, smooth wooden box in both her palms, slowly running her fingers along the side of it. She didn't say anything when her secretary called her name, too engrossed to notice.

The sheer black ebony wood was almost nondescript, if not for the tiny Latin phrase declaring, "Death is merely a fantasy of those in search of futile reprose; Life is Death," etched completely around the rim of the lid, which was fastened shut tight by a cold, golden locked clasp. It was small enough to just barely stretch the width of her slender palms, but something about it didn't seem quiet as insignificant as the appearance would have led her to believe. Coming from Father Shinigami himself, the cryptic and strangely sagacious deity that had shrouded himself in the deep shadows of the Underworld, living life as a Deathly hermit, she knew it probably held more than it seemed. But she didn't know what the hell was inside of it, and why in the world he had sent it to her.

Was he up to something? Or just sending her anonymous gifts all of the sudden? Together, they had spawned the most troublesome Son of Shinigami of the whole litter, but they hadn't interacted much before she had been approached and asked to donate a feather to the creation of a new Angel of Death to carry on the Deathly responsibilities when another Shinigami became incapable to crossing souls over. He had been much too arcane and elusive to form much of a friendship or even a rapport with, always smiling vacantly, as if he were contemplating something you couldn't have imagined. He'd liked Iria enough, she'd thought. If he'd really gotten annoyed with her, she'd be fertilizer for one of his Venetian Flytrap demonic plants before she would know what'd hit her.

"Miss Iria, the messenger did give me this note along with the parcel," Nadette said cautiously, interrupting her reverie on the mysterious intentions of the eldest Shinigami. She nervously reached into the tiny pocket against her hip in her white skirt and took out a small parchment envelope, one that was so completely black it almost seemed to become silvery white. It was humming with Darkness—it was definitely from the old man Shinigami himself, then. He was the only who could afford to throw that much energy away on such trivial things without risking the Drains [2].

"The messenger," the secretary continued, pausing a moment to swallow dryly at the memory of the corpse who had knocked on the door, then left with a trail of small body parts falling off him as he walked away. Luckily for them, his jaw hadn't fallen off by the time he ran the doorbell, so he was able to deliver a short message. "He told me specifically that only you were to open it, and only after the parcel had been delivered to your office, Miss Iria. And then he warned me that Father Shinigami would be very upset if he found out that you had refused his gift." The apparition girl was again paling and clutching a hand to her chest. "I believe it was a very thinly veiled threat, Miss Iria."

"Thinner than my lingerie," the one known as Aphrodite muttered.

"And if it was not, it was still very frightening to hear. Would Father Shinigami have any reason to harm you?"

"Maybe. I have no idea what the hell I did to piss off Death, but then again, I've been known to break hearts and take names in the past, haven't I?" Iria went on to herself, gazing up at the ceiling for a moment in remembrance.

"You and he gave creation to the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami. Why would he want hurt the caretaker of his youngest son?"

"Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Whatever it is, I'll just call in a favor with Shini and ask him to kick his ass for me if he really tries anything on me. He knows just as well as I do that he wouldn't stand a chance against him, and he's the one who got him kicked out in the first place. I'd say he'd better watch himself, if he knows what's good for him," she said wickedly.

"Miss Iria, even I know that Shini would be no match Father Shinigami, not that he has yet to realize his inherited powers. He'd be slaughtered."

"I was just saying when he _does_!" the Goddess of Love replied in a huff.

Giving a nonchalant flip of her blonde hair, Iria tried to brush it off with a shrug, and took the envelope after she'd put the lacquer box on her desk. Leaning against it, she cut the seal of embossed kanji with a manicured nail and unfolded a tiny sheet of parchment from inside. Written in boxy English letters, it read simply as, "Keep this in safekeeping until the Divine Centennial, won't you please? No peeking." That made her twist her lips up unhappily, in that strangled little frown she'd often made in the presence of the Arrogant Mortal, but reconsidering, it could have been a lot worse.

It seemed that this entire incident of the deity asking for a small favor, but Iria knew better. Something important was in the box, but she wouldn't be able to open it; she could feel the energy swirling around the lock, fortifying it. Father Shinigami had always been a mysterious one, but now Iria had the sudden urge to talk to him again. Of course, she could rule that out. In only a four more days, she would be thrown back into the drama of finding Shini a new residence, and if her son had been successful in seducing the stubborn mortal man. Catching even a trace of Father Shinigami could take weeks, even months.

While the blonde haired goddess sighed to herself, Nadette was standing beside her and reading the note silently. When she looked to down to her employer (she also happened to be fantastically tall, something Iria had demanded when she'd been stocking her office with model beautiful apparitions) she asked her, "Is it something of yours? What would he ask you to take care of, Miss Iria?"

"I don't have a damned clue," she sighed, walking around her desk in her bare feet to sink back into her chair and run a hand through her hair, "because that recluse owns hardly a material thing. I don't what he _could_ give to me to baby-sit for him."

The secretary clicked over on her black heels until she was positioned directly in front of her desk, folding her hands in front of her humbly. "The Divine Centennial, that's that banquet of the gods that you spoke of once before, isn't it?"

"The _epulor_ of all _epulor_s. The World Series of Divine mingling and relaxation. Amrita [3] in golden dishes as far as the mortal eye can see," Iria recited dully, tossing her golden hair over her shoulder and closing her eyes as she reclined. She suddenly had another thing to keep a close eye on, besides just, oh, only the most troublesome pre-pubescent deity in all the circles of Hell.

"But that's not for another hundred years!"

"Yeah, I know. I went to the last one and had a generally lavish time," Iria mumbled blandly, reaching out and picking up the black lacquer box. She idly ran her fingers over the carved Latin phrase over and over again, as if to soothe some sort of answer out of the mysterious little thing that had come to her doorstep in the hands of a dead, rotting man. "I wonder what he's trying to do. He might try and fool us, but he can't. I know he's up to something, I just don't know what But, oh well, darling, what can we do about it now?" She grinned tiredly and waved the black lacquer box in hand. "We'll just have to keep this until then, won't we?"

She stood up abruptly and teased one of the many square glass windows that made up the French doors that opened onto her balcony with a hand, stirring it like it was water. A diamond clear drawer knob appeared and Iria pulled it open, her own special security vault. The drawer itself wasn't big enough to hold the black lacquer box, but it instinctually widened to accommodate it, and she shut it again with it inside, dusting off her hands when she finished. "You feel better now, Nadie? It'll be safe there, and we'll be safe from it. That's that."

"Miss Iria, are you sure nothing's wrong?"

"Something's probably wrong, but I can't put my finger on it," she purred to herself, then went around the desk and slid her arm around her secretary's hip. "But, to _Barathrum_ with it. There's obviously nothing we do now. Let's go get a drink, shall we, Nadie? I could use one."

She beamed sweetly in return, welcoming the needed R&R after the strange incident stemming from one seemingly innocent box. "Alright, Miss Iria. But you'll have to pay this time—you've been forgetting to write my paycheck as of late," she reminded her with an equally kittenish grin as they went through the doors and the blonde dress sprites rushed to open the luscious red door for them. And when they pass through, they shut it, and sunk to the carpet in unison, out of breath from running so quickly on such tiny legs.

* * *

When Heero woke up, to the drone of the of the plane beginning it's descent toward the Tokyo airport runaway [4], he untangled himself from the arms of the Shinigami and rolled his neck once, cracking his vertebrae pleasantly. After he'd been dislodged from his arranged husband, the black-winged deity just gave a little snore and crumpled against his side, curled up in a semi-fetal ball. He barely even registered the movement when Heero, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes fully, shoved the Shinigami over just enough to reach over and buckle him in for the landing. He even leaned back a little to admire his handiwork once he had finished—the Shinigami was slumping against the seatbelt until he was at a neat forty-five degree angle, his eartails hanging down just enough to brush the top of his thighs and a little trail of drool on the side of his mouth. The mortal snorted amusedly to himself, and turned to fasten his own restraints.

* * *

While they departed from the bustling Japanese airport, with the sky still dim and sleepy from the morning sun, Heero's mind began to wonder away from him. He wasn't overly concerned with losing sight of the Shinigami this time—everything he'd seen in the San Franciscan terminal wasn't too radically different from the one in his homeland, and for the moment Shini was content to yawn into a hand and hold his arranged husband's hand and be pulled along. Occasionally Heero might feel him make a tug backwards, pausing to take a second look at something, but just after walking up he was mellower and much more manageable; he wouldn't lag behind long before catching up.

He walked in a content silence behind him. The only sound coming from him was the swish of the cloak fabric brushing against itself and his barefeet padding on the floor.

That left him to begin mulling things over, while his body automatically navigated the both of them towards the overnight lot beside the airport in the misty morning light. Like the practical-minded parents he'd been robbed of at a measly twelve years of age, he started making an organized list in hopes to make some sense of the impossible situation he was in.

_First of all:_ He was traveling with an Angel of Death, a Shinigami, one of the very spirits who probably had escorted his parents to the otherside, where ever they had gone.

_Second_: He was in an arranged marriage with said Shinigami, which was, according to the Goddess of Love, validated and eternally binding.

And also according to the Goddess of Love, it could be rendered null and void if he so wished, if he felt the responsibility was too much for him. It had been a strangely selfless offer of Iria, considering how much she had claimed that they had searched for a suitable long-term candidate. And considering it for a minute, he could understand just how impossible that search must be, when dealing with the Thirteenth Son. He was having difficulty adapting to the divine company for just a few days' stint, and it would have drove him insane to have looked for centuries for a suitable caretaker for a being as profoundly emotional as this particular Shinigami was. Then again, he wasn't his mother—and there were a lot of things that would be done in the name of a mother's love for her children.

An arranged marriage. He had to laugh inwardly at the thought of it. He'd hardly planned on marriage of any kind, if at all, only a few days before this entire incident, and now he found him in an arranged marriage. In Japan, it wasn't uncommon at all. Even in the modern day and age, there was a good forty-five percentage of arranged marriages, formal or informal, just as was antiquated tradition. And in those marriages, it wasn't unheard of, or discouraged, if the husband and wife slept in separate quarters and the male head of the household to have affairs outside of the marriage.

It was something Heero had been very aware of, his parents being a very blatant exception to that standard. His Western father had lured his mother out of an arranged marriage himself, being wholly appalled by the thought of a non-romantic engagement for a lifetime. By no standards was his father, Odin Lowe, anything of an obvious hopeless romantic, but he'd been raised with a strong sense of freedom that couldn't handle the thought of an arranged marriage. His mother had been the more romantic one, he remembered, and had welcomed his father and completely shut out her parents' protests and the shame they put upon her for eloping with the _gaijin_. Perhaps they had influenced him in that aspect, but he couldn't tell. He didn't know what to feel about his own sudden arranged marriage. To think about his bizarre situation was to be confused on what he wanted anymore, what he knew anymore. It was to question his sanity in a way.

Behind him, Shini began to get talkative again, still being towed along hand-in-hand. He mumbled a little bit about feeling very in need of a hot bath, whined a little about the tangled state of his hair, and a few other miscellaneous things that Heero wasn't paying full attention to, but then it came. That inevitable little tone that meant he was just about to ask another question. "_Teishu_?"

"Yes?" he returned dutifully, now crossing the sidewalk rimming the airport, closer toward the overnight lot. He waited to be inquired about something mundane—maybe a streetlamp this time—but was surprised to hear him start talking to him quite animatedly.

"Shini was thinking to himself and wanted to know where you lived. It doesn't reside in a cottage by the sea, does it? You see, he would be very upset because that would mean he would not be able to go, and the thought makes him so upset he would pull out his own hair if it were truthful. Miserable, he would be. Shini does not think you have the sea here in Tokyo, but things have changed much here since he last visited." The Shinigami, his fingers happily lacing themselves between Heero's as he trotted up alongside him and continued his bright chatter without hesitation.

"Beaches and suntanning can be a cup'a tea, but in here in _Teishu's_ homeland there can be nasty things in the water. He has a problem with the _kappa_, he does. They love to follow Shinigami to try and get some of his blood, and that's not very nice to do, all that pouncing and draining," he said, smiling brightly at Heero, who was getting lost in all the confusing rambling without a roadmap keep track of it all.

"_Kappa_ love Shinigami tasting," the deity explained merrily, even pulling his hair into his hand and lifting it up to expose the nape of his neck. "Especially right here. Nasty _kappa_, neck suckers." He smiled flawlessly.

For a second, Heero looked like he was trying to decode encryption in his head, one eyebrow hitched upward in a mild look of confusion. It was a little difficult to keep up with the Shinigami's chatting, and it was more than a little strange to realize he was looking a God of Death in the face and listening to him jaw on and on being afraid of the Japanese water vampires of myth. The misty morning air of Tokyo and the hand in his own started having a strange effect on him, and he suddenly started to enjoy the company of Shini's voice, running steadily in the background, like a reliable engine, about anything and everything. When he realized that he was just staring blankly at the Shinigami, Heero shook his head a little to clear his head.

Shini concernedly tilted his head to the side, slowing to a stop beside him. Now that the mortal noticed it, he'd slowed to a stop as well, in the middle of the sidewalk, the overnight lot just a few meters away. "Hm? Something wrong, _Teishu_?"

"I was just distracted, I'm alright," Heero answered quickly, starting up walking again. Surprisingly, he didn't have to yank Shini into motion beside him; he was walking alongside him, still looking at him for another reassurance that he was really alright. He didn't like the expression burning into his face, so he decided to speak to try and be rid of it. "I live in our old—I mean, my parents old house. Just before they died, we were making plans to sell it, since my father was building a new one in the countryside for us to live in. I stayed in the city while the family attorney helped to sell the new land and the new house was demolished."

Shini seemed genuinely glad to hear it, even though it wasn't the happiest story he could have told. "That's sad, _Teishu_. What's your home like?"

"Nice, I guess," Heero mumbled. "I've lived there my entire life. I don't know how to describe it anymore. It's just nice. Filled with memories, and all that."

"He understands. It sounds very nice. _Oi_, _Teishu_, do you have flowerboxes underneath the window with carnage-ations? They're Shinigami's very favorite!" The Angel of Death gushed at him, either not noticing or not caring that he had confused carnations' with a similar-sounding, but very different word. Whichever it was, it made Heero feel the urge to smirk at him, and he indulged in a little twitch of his lip. Meanwhile, the Shinigami was putting a hand to his forehead shielding his eyes as if to block out the sun and squinted out into the distance, craning his neck.

"Can we see it from here, _Teishu_?"

"No, so don't try and go hurting yourself. It's some ways outside the main city, but it shouldn't take long to get there," he reassured flatly, now that they were weaving through the overnight lot, between the assorted cars that had been left by owners in favor of a cheap rental while they relaxed in the sun and sand. Well, his excursion hadn't exactly been a vacation, but he momentarily forgot about all that when he saw his vehicle sat waiting for him loyally, hidden safe in the far corner of the parking lot. There was a certain comfort in coming back and laying eyes on something completely familiar, even if it couldn't smile and greet you a warm welcome with words.

In a blur, the Shinigami had ducked behind him at the sight of the strange horseless carriage. But soon he couldn't help it and gaped at it over his shoulder. "Ooooh."

After a second, he even let out a tiny little squeal, being ambiguously between being in fear of it and enraptured by it. He ran his eyes down the gleaming surface of the two-wheeled horseless carriage, it's bony, metallic ears jutting off to the side, it's back soft, sagging, and made of steer skin, and it's tail horribly barren and smelling of an awful smoke. All signs were pointing him towards caution, but Shini couldn't quite be afraid as he crept around the mortal and walked slowly up to the strange looking creature. Hanging in the air around it was that faint scent like fireworks, and it sent little shivers down his spine as he breathed in.

"It's a motorcycle," Heero explained plainly. "It's still a horseless carriage, just with two wheels." He put his hands in his pockets, now that the Shinigami had let go of him, and allowed himself to simply watch him explore it cautiously, like he was a dog circling an animal he didn't know what to think of.

Shini picked up fistfuls of his cloak to keep it out of the dirt as he squatted down and looked at the bulky, metallic intestines that were visible on the outside.

"How does it not loose all of its parts like this?" he wondered out loud to no one, poking at the greasy metal when he noticed the silver appendage protruding out from the side of it over on the other side. He scampered over, still balling fabric in his fists. It was a narrow metallic tube that seemed to support the sleek, wasp-shaped creature. He titled his head so he could look at it sideways, then upside down, and he grinned.

"It actually stands on that? He's going to loose it that way. Then Mister Auto-mo-beel will not be having pleasant days," Shini commented brashly to himself, feeling very giddy this morning. It came mostly from knowing he was soon going to be in his husband's house and just thinking of what he'd do.

"That is one awful looking horse, _Teishu_," he said playfully, craning his neck around to leer at his arranged husband's face. "It has no legs and a very ugly face. Are you sure that you have not been gypped?"

Heero stiffened up as he felt the eyes turn back on him. There was an awkward feeling of almost being caught watching the Angel of Death, ogling almost, as he went around his motorcycle in rapt fascination, but that was ridiculous since he'd been doing nothing of the sort. He opened his mouth to say something and realize he'd been too busy defending himself from himself to think of something. But Shini didn't need an answer from him; he was gleefully realizing he had figured out how to sit on it.

Like a scientist yelling out "Eureka!" the Shinigami's face lit up. "Just like _umi_! Western saddle style!"

Heero lifted an eyebrow at that and dully marked it up as another of his strange, oddly American sayings. There'd been a few of those before.

"Oooh _sugoi_," Shini whispered in rapt fascination, once he had swung a leg over it and managed to get his cloak to cooperate with him so he could sit on it. He put his hands on the handlebars tentatively at first, then started to smile with extreme satisfaction as he drummed his fingers around the grips. "Very _sugoi_!"

"It's uh, new," Heero said lamely. Though he had a great affection for the machine, he was still unsure of what to say in the situation.

"He thinks this is a very, very nice horseless carriage of yours May he be allowed to name it? Pretty please with sweets on top?"

The mortal man snorted flatly. "Like what?"

Shini made a rapturous face, as if he were sorting through a bowl of Turkish delights. "Hmmm," he debated shortly, pressing a finger to his lips as the gears turned in his head. "He thinks _Youkai_ would do. A fierce and charming demon, a beautiful apparition, a _youkai_."

He was purring and sinking into the seat like he had with the airplane, but Heero could tell from the certain gleam in his eyes he preferred the motorcycle very, very much so. As walked up to the motorcycle, already pulling the keys out of his pocket, Shini had started leaning forward, with both hands on the handlebars, and peering closely at all of the gauges and awkwardly pronouncing the American brand name printed on it.

"Where do you get such wonderful metal in such a fantastic shape, _Teishu_?" he asked him, turning to face him once before he started licking a few choice areas on his motorcycle.

"Hey, hey, don't do that," Heero said quickly. He made an almost squeamish expression as he bolted forward and caught the Shinigami by the shoulder, managing to pull him away after he'd had only a little taste. "Don't lick that, it's just been waxed!"

"It tastes like candles" Shini muttered as he sat up and pawed a little at his tongue. His face scrunched up like a young child just experiencing his first taste of broccoli. "Not very good," he complained.

"Maybe you shouldn't try and taste everything you see," Heero said, almost chiding. He put his hand on the handlebar where the Shinigami's used to be, making sure he paid attention to him this time. "Not everything is edible here in Tokyo. And I'd rather not have to rush you to some toxin center when you start tasting something poisonous or swallowing things." The mortal gave a long-winded sigh, getting the feeling like he was taking care of some haphazard child when he said that. "Now move back, I'm driving."

The young Japanese man went around the rear of his motorcycle and began to unlatch the largest saddlebag that stored his single helmet and once he had removed it, he latched it again with his backpack stuffed inside. He felt the inhumanly colored eyes of the winged deity sitting on his motorcycle on him and his lips twitched into a rather amused smile.

"Don't be silly, _Teishu_," Shinigami smiled at him as he walked around again and dismissed him with a playful wave of his hand.

Heero frowned down at the cheerful face as he clutched the helmet casually under an arm. "What?" he growled unhappily, feeling a little insulted.

"You are very silly," he insisted, leaning toward him and poking him playfully in the stomach. "Wholly sweet of you, _Teishu_, to be worrying about me. But he is immortal. He's not going to become ill and pass on if he some of your bad substances. No mortal poison will kill Shini."

Letting off a bright, flawless grin, Shini felt a little swell in his chest as he watched the face of his normally levelheaded, mindful husband twist into one of fluster.

"Oh." Heero had honestly forgotten the fact that he was traveling in the company of an Earth-bound god, but who would blame him, after he'd seen all the trouble that said god could stir up. After the last few days of constantly having to keep an eye out for him, it suddenly had become something like second nature to worry about him hurting himself. He'd been fretting over him without even noticing.

Heero felt that sensation of being a little insulted blossom into full out embarrassment, or what was full out for him. There was a trace of color in his face as he grumbled, "Well, with all the trouble you stir up" and blindly shoved the helmet into the Shinigami's hands.

Shini instantly burst out laughing, and Heero quickly realized his second blunder, but this time he could feel the frustrated heat settling into his face. He snatched it back out of the deity's hands and put it over his head and hoped that it would hide the fact that he'd handed a helmet to someone couldn't be killed by any mortal danger, and therefore wasn't too worried about getting thrown out onto the pavement. It could hide the embarrassment in his face, but he could still hear the Shinigami snickering behind him as he sat down and stuck the key into the ignition.

"Ah," Heero grumbled, as the engine turned and thundered and rumbled pleasurably, "be quiet and hold on. You know how to ride a horse, don't you? Just hold on to me so you won't fall off in the middle of the highway."

"Whatever you say, growling _youkai_," Shini murmured impishly into the back of his head as he lifted his feet up to rest on the motorcycle and pulled the excess fabric up into his lap. He strung an arm around Heero's waist, happy to comply, and continued to snicker into his shoulder to himself as Heero revved the engine once and tried to ignore it, pulling out of the parking lot just as the sun began rising to the exact same height it'd been in San Francisco hours ago.

He was getting tempted to purposely dump him off in the middle of the road—he was still laughing.

* * *

__

_Epulor_ = banquet

_Barathrum_ = the abyss / the underworld

_Sugoi_! = Cool!

_Youkai_ = demon, spirit, or apparition

* * *

[1] Krishna, the eighth incarnation of the Hindu God of Protection, Vishnu. Very blue looking. Should get a tan, in my opinion. .-

[2] One of the many energy sicknesses related to Shinigami of all ages because they control such mass amounts of Darkness. The Drains is a common and painful disorder when too much energy is expelled and it creates an almost literal leak in their spirit. Soon, the body begins to almost deflate and wither away, officially called "The Leaving Death"—you'll be getting familiar with a lot more very soon. - Just to let you know, it's my creation, so don't expect to find it browsing through a library book anytime soon.

[3] Amrita is the substance that supposedly sustains immorality. Ambrosia and nectar are the food and the drink of the gods. They're all thought to be types of honey because of the supposed cleansing and healing power it held. You'll also be getting familiar with those soon, too. I'm just a foreshadowing fiend, aren't I?

[4] Alright, if anybody was paying enough attention to catch it, they had a relatively short flight. Why, you ask? A simple error in my writing, an itsy-bitsy plot hole? Well, for one thing, I didn't want this entire story to end up on the flight over to Tokyo, and I was sort of assuming that in the age that they're in, with the colonies being built and all, that the airlines would have developed faster planes. I just hope you guys buy it. Things like those always make me so frustrated when I notice them later in my writing. But don't listen to me being a snotty perfectionist.

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[[[A/N]]] Man, does anyone get the feeling the footnotes are almost or just as long as the chapter? I just churned this one out, so beware of low-flying grammer and spelling errors. Might wanna wear a hard hat. Well, right now I'm getting bitched at to get my ass of the computer, so I'm just going to do what I came to do. I thank every one who's been reading and supporting me with reviews, which have been so wonderful, I have to admit. I'm a little overwhelmed now, realizing I've hit and gone over the hundred review mark, but I'm just getting warmed up. Just a couple of months ago, I couldn't have imagined being past Chapter Six, so thank everybody so much. I think I smell a group hug coming on. Huh, huh? Yeah, just ignore that part. -;

][More Soundtrack][

"Clown" by Kabalevsky

"Runner's High" by the Pillows

"Somebody to Love" by Queen

"One Headlight" by The Wallflowers

"It's the End of the World" by R.E.M.


	14. A Spoonful of Sugar

Chapter 14

"A Spoonful of Sugar"

A black American model motorcycle soon rumbled up into the driveway of an eerily quiet home sitting and holding its peace on a suburban road outside of the bustling metropolis that was Tokyo in the year 145 AC. 1 It was the only sound that permeated the neighborhood, now that all the children were off to school to cram for entrance exams and the parents off to their commute. The few young children and stay-at-home mothers that Heero knew lived nearby were still quiet at this hour in the morning, eating their breakfast and indulging in a few pacifying cartoons. While the weary-eyed mothers took in their first swigs of coffee.

One very tired Heero Yuy turned off the engine and let the kickstand down, the motorcycle settling down on the concrete like a tired animal itself and slumping to the side as Heero stepped off.

Shini called it _Youkai_, and Heero had always acknowledged it simply as the motorcycle. It'd been his father's possession, but it had been more like the brother that Heero had never had. He'd always had a faint streak of jealousy run through him whenever he'd walk by the garage and see him tinkering around with it, feeling like there had suddenly been a second child and Heero's amount of parental attention had diminished in favor of pampering the baby. His mother had been completely with him, luckily, and when he'd wanted to go out for a ride, she'd insist that Heero rode along. She wasn't concerned about collisions or accidents; she trusted enough in her husband that he would be cautious. And she could see the jealousy in her son's face when he spoke at lengths about it. The motorcycle had been one of his father's last indulgences before his untimely death, and even though he'd sort of held a childish grudge against it, it felt wrong to leave it to rust and fall to pieces. Also, when Heero had come of age, he didn't have to worry about finding his own mode of transportation.

It took the mortal a few seconds to realize the grip around him was missing, and he quickly slipped the helmet off his head. His disheveled brown hair jutted out oddly and he was too busy trying to find where the Shinigami had run off to brush it down. With a strange, backward-looking mohawk effect, Heero whipped his head around to see the black-clad deity walking up the sidewalk that led to his porch. The porch of his half-Occidental, half-Oriental suburban home. He automatically felt the need to run after him and keep him closely in check, but he realized that it was pointless. Shinigami was Shinigami and he would be impossible to control now. At least he was home, he thought.

He could tell by how happily Shini trotted in his bare feet down the concrete path that he would be too giddy to even try to calm down anyway. The thick, dark cape around his shoulders quickly found itself tossed to the wayside after Shini had shrugged it off and stood on the steps, his back to the street, and shook out his ink-black feathers and his hair with a satisfied sigh. Then, before he could be seen by any passersby, the Angel of Death smirked to nobody and walked confidently through the front door—like it was made of nothing more than water. There was a tiny, supernatural ripple emanating out from where Shini had passed, but Heero had a certain feeling that only people with a sense for metaphysical things would have seen it as well.

Heero followed dutifully behind him after he had exchanged his backpack and his helmet in the saddlebags of his motorcycle now dubbed _Youkai_. He frowned and stopped to pick up the wing-concealing cloak off of the string of flowers along the sidewalk and balled it under his arm as he continued walking. He took the steps in two lazy, mechanical strides and stopped silently at the door, a frown still spread across his face. It seemed completely unfair that Shinigami walked through the door like it was no more than thin air, and he would have to find his key hidden within the pockets of his pack and unlock it. It wasn't like he had lazy tendencies, but being around a deity made a mortal realize just how cumbersome some of the rules that applied to them could be.

Heero squinted into the frosted, Western-style window in the door and watched the blur of pale skin and brown moving curiously about his foyer. It made him fish out his keys all the faster and unlock the door. It held tight a few inches open by a golden chain and he gave a tiny sigh as he slipped his arm inside and disengaged the second lock. When he slipped inside, Heero automatically shut the door behind him and locked it again. It was an old habit he had never gotten rid of.

And when he turned around, he saw the Shinigami crouching down to the floor, his robes spilling out behind him like pure shadow. They were both standing in the lowered, cemented part of the hallway, where it was custom in Japan to take one's shoes off before stepping up onto the elevated floorboards that ran through the entire house. Heero gave him blank look and tossed his concealing cape onto a coat rack near by. Shini was still sniffing curiously at the edge of the floorboards, his hair hanging over his shoulder as he slunk closer to the floor and showing off his surprisingly toned back and the bulging muscles that held his black wings in place. Wings that extended casually into the air, darker than midnight and lighter than air.

There was a little cough on the mortal's part when he stopped to stand beside the Angel of Death that was examining his floor. "What are you doing?" he asked flatly, hoping he'd pick up on the impatient undercurrent.

Shini bent down low so that his head was nearly upside down and his back arched into a crooked looking c' shape, still sitting on his knees. He put his hands flat on the floor on either side of him and started deeply inhaling air from a tiny crack in the floorboards that rose from the cement a half-foot. "Hmmm."

That didn't appease him. "Hmmm' what?" Heero demanded. "That's a pretty vague answer for you."

"Smell that?"

"Smell _what_?" He frowned distastefully.

"You don't smell that at all? Shini could swear it on his wings that there's something in your home, _Teishu_, very close in fact," the God of Death mumbled to himself, inching forward and once again demonstrating just how his abdomen curved into his waist as he stretched. Running his nose along the silver of a gap, breathing in lungfuls of dusty stale air, he became more and more sure of it. "He knows it, he does. It's in here."

As much as he frowned at him, it didn't help Heero to understand him.

"Whatever. Do whatever you want," Heero groaned tiredly and started to walk past with a definite lag in his step. He wanted to lay down, he wanted to forget he was harboring the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami in his home, he wanted to forget he was going to work tomorrow, he wanted to forget he had to clean and buy groceries, but mostly the Shinigami part. He toed off his shoes and nudged them in place before stepping onto the polished floorboards and walking by, headed for his room.

"I don't care, just don't wreck anything, alright?" he mumbled. "Just try?"

"_Hai_, _hai_, _Teishu. Wakarimasu_," Shini replied distractedly, more interested in scratching at the gap he'd found.

"Don't touch anything that looks like it could break, because it probably will," Heero found himself rambling on, without much attention to what he was saying. "You're only going to be here four more days, thank God, so don't mess up anything. Please."

But the deity was much too preoccupied with sinking his fingernails into the wooden plank and ripping it clean away with a victorious gasp of, "Ah-ha!" on his lips.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" the mortal snapped over his shoulder, making a contorted, exhausted face as the Shinigami grinned, sitting on his knees, and didn't even bother acknowledging him with a look, even as Heero repeated to call to him and ask him very roughly what he was doing to his floor. He stalked back over to the foyer until he was standing over him, at the edge of the wooden floor. "Hey, stop that. You're ruining my floor."

He arched an eyebrow. "Are you even listening to me?"

Shini still bore a bright grin; he hadn't paid attention to a single syllable thrown at him. He tossed the old, slightly damp and dusty board over his shoulder carelessly to let it clatter to the ground beside the door, making his mortal husband make another sharp accusation. He ducked down and stuck his arm slowly into the hole he'd created, reaching so far that he pressed the side of his face to the floorboards and bit at the tip of his tongue.

"Hey," Heero growled. "Listen to me, and get your arm out of there. That's absolutely no way to treat my home, and I will still throw you out if you earn it, deal or no deal. I'm not gonna deal with you like this anymore—"

A moment later, the Angel of Death sat back onto his haunches with a contented smile and flicked a lock of hair over his shoulder with a hand. In the palm of his hand, kicking off the tangled web wrapped around her, was a bulbous black widow spider clawing her way around the folds in his human-like skin.

"Ha ha! See, he told you he smelt something of Death in your home, _Teishu_. Little did he know it would be right underneath your feet, though," he explained happily, letting the cautious spider scamper from palm to palm, always keeping one hand in front of it. He craned his head downward so he could look sideways at her spindly legs and get a glimpse at the red hourglass imprinted on her belly. "_Kanojo wa ubarashiii da, ne_?"

When Shini looked up, he realized that his mortal husband had taken three very generous steps to separate him and the toxic creature. "Kill it," he ordered uneasily, taking another step backwards in his stocking feet just to be sure. He was shocked that there had been such a deadly creature in his home, for who knew how long, and that he had been walking over it every day as he went out the door on his way to work. Sleeping, while it could have made webs beneath his bed. It made him feel awfully uneasy.

Shini cupped the creepy, crawly thing very abruptly in his hands and held it protectively to his side, away from the command of his arranged husband. There was a look of disgust crossing the Angel of Death's innocent face, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That's just appalling, _Teishu_! He will not kill her! No way, nuh-uh!"

A sour raspberry was thrown his way, and Shini stood up, gently cupping his new found pet of sorts in the protective circle of his palms, like one would with a new hamster. An eight-legged hamster with fangs and enough venom to kill a full-grown man with one bite.

"Kill it!" Heero said, now visibly unnerved by it, but still able to give him a disparaging snort. "That's ridiculous. You're a Shinigami, just kill it!"

Shini stalked up toward him, his face twisted and stern, and held the deadly pet casually in his hands in front of his chest. He stopped a two feet from his arranged husband, but it soon became five. From the cracks between his hands there were macabre, long black legs clawing to escape, and a tiny head with beady eyes and a flexing jaw following closely. As creepy as the deadly spider was, the austere expression on the Angel of Death's normally pristine face that was pinned on him was just as frightening.

"He will definitely not kill her," Shinigami stated firmly, even as there were visible blue pricks appearing on his hands as the spider started biting him, unbeknownst to him. "She is living, just as another creature. She hasn't done anything to harm or threaten you, so she deserves no punishment, especially not Death! She cannot choose that she can kill, it was the way she was born. The way Shini was born."

A horribly squeamish looking expression slipped through onto Heero's face as he watched the black widow furiously biting at her captor, biting until her venom had been drained, and little rivulets of blue-violet Divine blood began running through the folds in his palms.

"And he is not like other Shinigami, _Teishu_ should know that," the God of Death chided darkly, taking personal offense even as the visible hurt surfaced in his eyes and his voice laced with difficulty. "He is not a killer, _Teishu_. He is not! You can't call him that, you just can't!"

"Shini," Heero felt the name rolling off his lips in a little gasp, as he felt a little jolt run through him. He couldn't tell if it was from watching the little drops of immortal blood falling to the floorboards, the venomous spider unloading her poisons into the Shinigami, or hearing the sharp defense in the deity's voice, paired with the impending look of tears forming in his eyes. He was right. He was childish and inexperienced and stubborn, but Heero could see that he was right and that he had to acknowledge it, and he felt the familiar feeling of guilt welling up in him. He felt those inhuman violet eyes falling upon him imploringly as he sighed.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled almost inaudibly, backing off again as the spider made more leeway between his fingers. "You're right, so don't kill her if you don't want to." Another sigh followed, and he exasperatedly ran his hand through his disheveled hair and started off down the hallway toward the kitchen. "I'm getting myself a beer. Do whatever you want," he mumbled as he turned the corner.

Shini lifted his hands up and watched a little trickle of his blood stream out his fingers. He grinned, despite it, and went trotting after him. "Can he keep her?"

"No!"

"But she doesn't hurt him! See?" the Angel of Death implored. "She can't live under _Teishu's_ floors forever! There'll be nothing to eat and she'll pass on the worlds."

"Oh, that's horrible." Heero barely bothered to lift his voice loud enough to make it out of the kitchen, and as he opened the refrigerator door, a distinct shiver went up and down his spine, but not from the cool air drifting out onto his skin. He knew that seconds later, Shinigami would be standing behind him, begging again, barely aware that he held a very deadly creature too close for comfort for him. It may not have hurt the immortal being, but with one careless mistake she could escape, bite him, and he'd be long gone.

And it didn't help that he wasn't the most inclined towards spiders.

He gripped his fist around an American-style beer with a Japanese label and felt the sweat of the bottle rubbing off onto his skin. Twisting the top off easily as he nudged the door shut with his elbow, Heero turned to see his prediction come true. He quickly took a step backwards from the black widow, still struggling to halfway escape the clutches of her well-meaning captor.

Shini bowed to him humbly, still cupping his hands around the deadly spider, and then begged him again, his innocent eyes matching the pout in his lips. "Pretty please, partn'r?" he asked, slurring his words like some ridiculous cowboy. Heero arched an eyebrow at him in consideration, but it soon fell on the black widow, and only a second later he shook his head and said, "No," again.

"But _Teishu_!"

"I don't care what you say or think about her, she'll kill me if she bites me. I don't plan on dying just yet," Heero retorted flatly, brushing by the Angel of Death and his pet venomous spider—at a considerable distance, of course—and sat down at his kitchen table to take a long, remedying drink from the alcohol bottle. After the chair legs scratched along the floor, the air filled with a tense silent on the Shinigami's part. "She can live, but just not here."

For a few seconds, it remained at a stalemate, with the sound of Heero tiredly ingesting alcohol to help ease the thoughts that were giving him so much trouble, now that he wasn't alone anymore. It was silent after he set it down on the table, back in the ring of water it'd left on the tabletop, and puckered his lips slightly. The sound of the black widow trying to escape the immortal hands that held her couldn't be heard, nor the sound that the unhappy expression on the Shinigami's face made. What could be heard, a moment or so later, was the deity walking over quietly and sitting himself down at the table one chair apart from the mortal man. Shini sat in silence, watching the profile of Heero's face as he eventually stopped staring off into nothing and turned his attention toward him. He flinched slightly, just seeing the spider again, and the deity's face darkened.

"Is that you want to do when you see him, when you see Shini?" His eyes lowered half way, absorbed in thought, trying with difficulty to say the next thing on his mind. "You want to move away?"

"No," Heero said automatically, not even giving it a genuine thought. He didn't want to seem like he was a callus bastard, so he automatically denied it. But looking back on all his actions, on the events of the days past, he knew that he had been one, and there would be no hiding that fact, no matter what he would say.

"But you are afraid of _her_."

"Yeah," he grunted uneasily. "That spider could kill me."

"But so could Shinigami. In truth, he probably is more likely to kill you than she is, _Teishu_," he confessed with a self-effacing scoffing laugh, turning away and gazing wistfully at the polished grain of the tabletop. Still, the spindly black legs could be seen, clawing through the cracks between his fingers. "He understands. All mortals fear Death—that's why you hate him."

Heero wondered what the hell he'd done to deserve such a heavy conversation, and wondered why the hell he felt so guilty about it all of a sudden. The words came effortlessly, though he wasn't sure if they were believable. "I don't hate you," he said, holding the cold glass of the beer in one hand and nervously sticking the other in his pocket.

The light in his face instantly returned. The switch had been thrown, and his innocent effervescent had returned in full as he started to beg again. "Then can he keep her?"

"I said no," Heero retorted, furrowing an eyebrow. He didn't appreciate how he felt the Angel of Death was trying to advantage of his guilt just so he could keep a lethal animal as a pet inside his house. "You're only going to be here for four more days, why do you need to keep her? You're going to have to take her when you leave, because there is no way she will be staying in this house with me."

"Oh, come on," Shini grinned, opening up his palms slowly to display said deadly creature. "She's almost tame, Teishu! Really!"

"Let that thing free in my house and I'll kick you out right now," he warned sharply, taking a distinct scoot backwards away from the Shinigami and his equally deadly pet. "And you're bleeding on my table. You should either kill her or put her back where you found her, and go fix your hand up," he ordered, unable to tear his eyes off the beady-eyed head that was appearing between his palms.

"But _Teishu_!" Shini whined. He bolted to his feet and angrily stomped a barefoot against the polished floorboards with a dull thump. "He doesn't want to leave her—he wants to take care of her! Like you promised his mother you'd take care of him! Promised!"

"What does that have to do with this?" Heero said critically, lifting the rim of the bottle away from his lips just to make a skeptical face.

"He wants to keep her!"

"He can't," Heero mocked dully, glancing away to take another drink, to fill his belly with something warm and bubbly and agreeable, especially something that didn't argue back like a child.

"Well, what _can_ he do?" Shini barked back finally, sharply putting his hands on either of his hips, his lip puckered like a boorish fighter might in an argument, and his tail whipping steadily back and forth in the air behind him. There was a soft sound emanating in the room that definitely was not Heero's lips on the bottle rim or the growl coming off a stubborn Shinigami—a soft, squishy noise. Slowly, Shini looked down into his upturned palm to see what remained of his pet, and the rest of her stuck to his hip.

"Oh, crap," Shini grumbled.

Heero paused for a second, keeping his stomach even as he observed what color the inside of black widows were, since it was smeared over the Shinigami's hand. "Well, you can go clean that off, first, and then you can go take a shower. You still reek of Darkness oil." He turned around to take another long, cleansing swig from the bottle and walked out of the kitchen, up the short flight of stairs and into the bathroom at the top of the hall. He ducked into the dark doorway and a second later it filled with a yellowish light.

Shini stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring in distraught at his beloved pet in all her assorted pieces and juices, and glanced up just in time to see a towel being tossed down to him and hear his Teishu grumbling, "I'm gonna have to throw that one away when you're done with it."

* * *

1 The timeline will be different than in the usual Gundam Wing universe. As you can probably already tell, this is an Alternate universe, so the date really wouldn't amount to much, but I thought it would be important to stay away from the 190's in After Colony. The respect the politics of Gundam Wing too much to explain away in one session o' geek, so I thought that by the time it came around to when Heero was 25, which would be 205, that there would have been some sort of major conflict that I was not prepared to write into my story. Heero will not be using any mobile suit, guns, or mixed martial arts as far as this story is concerned, but Shini makes a pretty good weapon if he gets into any trouble (which he will), don't you think?

* * *

__

_Hai, hai, Teishu. Wakarimasu _— Yeah, yeah, Husband/Master. I understand.

_Kanojo wa ubarashiii da, ne_?" — She's fantastic, isn't she?

* * *

A/N

I know that I've been keeping you guys from the update you all deserve, but school's beginning to rag on my ass already, especially with the introduction of that Satanic spawn that most call Geometry. Pictures: Good; Math: Bad; Math with Pictures: Beyond-Comprehension Bad. Well, that's no excuse, really. I tried to fit the rest of this chapter in, but we were fast approaching a 6 or 7 thousand word mark, and I thought it'd be better to split it up. I promise you'll very soon get the next chapter, and it'll be plump full of turning point. It's one of the big turning points in the story, so automatically you've got to have some snogging, right? Thanks for reading everyone, and if anyone would like to sell Geometry answers in exchange for virtual sex, I'm just desperate enough to try. Looks around nervously Joking, joking! Underage! Ha!


	15. The Nurseryman

Chapter 15

"The Nurseryman"

Heero wished he were completely drunk, if it would somehow make the enormous babysitting task looming over him seem a little less complicated. But, unfortunately, he didn't have quite enough alcohol in his house to do that. He was finishing his first by the time he could convince the Shinigami to get upstairs and clean up. The deity had become visibly distraught by the accidental death of the spider, and he reacted like he had on the airplane when he believed he had hurt the infant, but this time he was quiet and pitiful and prone to staring blankly while Heero asked to him to please clean himself up. The stench of the vengeance spirit still hung in his hair and his clothes, and metaphysically aware or not, it didn't change the fact that it just plain smelled.

He stood sternly silent by the open doorway of the bathroom, holding the near-empty bottle in one hand while the other rested balled up in his pocket. Waiting, sipping once in a while as the Shinigami mournfully cleaned up the mess he'd caused and began trudging up the stairs toward the mortal man with the towel balled up against his chest. He stopped at the top of the stairs, clutching it to his chest like comfort blanket, and gave Heero a melancholy, almost tired violet stare. In return he only received a brief nod of the head indicating toward the bathroom, and the towel was taken out of his hands while he hesitated and stood motionless.

Heero ducked into the bathroom for a second without a word to gather up the ones that sat in the hamper, and behind him the Shinigami cautiously glanced into alien room. When the mortal man turned around and tried to brush by him out the doorway, a hamper basket full of towels slung on one hip, he heard a tiny little voice piping up beside him.

"_Teishu_?" Shini queried tentatively.

Heero stopped, so that they were directly side-by-side, and turned to face him flatly. He simply lifted an eyebrow as response, giving the subtle prompt he was listening when he very well didn't feel like opening his mouth. The Angel of Death stuttered a little, nervously spinning one of his eartails around a finger, as he said quietly, "Well, he was only wondering—What is this room called again? He may remember, but it is not on the end of his tongue."

"A bathroom?" the mortal man offered in a flat grunt.

"Oh." He vainly tried to make it seem as if he'd really just had a lapse of mind, that he understood the word completely. The deity bit his bottom lip almost tediously, and wrapped his hair around his finger, then unwrapping it just as quickly and repeating the whole thing every other second. "Oh, _hai_. About that—"

The mortal man didn't move an inch as he let off a sigh, rolling his eyes blandly in the process. "Let me guess."

Automatically in return, Shini made a confused face and stopped fiddling for an instant with his long, matted hair. "We are not playing a guessing game, are we?"

"You never seen been inside a bathroom before, have you?" Heero said bluntly, a dull, impatient tone adding to his slightly nasal Japanese voice.

"Yes, he has, but the last mortal bathing room he laid eyes upon was certainly not like this. Most certainly not. This is more like a lady's powder room, he thinks. Strange."

He turned and frowned slightly in confusion at what he called a modern powder room, doused in the illumination of light bulbs—something he'd only recently become familiar with, fortunately for his arranged husband, otherwise he might have attacked them, mistaking them for something other than harmless lighting.

It was obvious from the nervous flittering and the polite, innocent voice that he had no idea what to do while standing in the room, beneath the artificial lights that hung just over the large mirror on the opposite wall. His eyes also wandered curiously around the room, but he was still cautious and still nervous, twiddling his hair as he looked past Heero into his reflection in the mirror. He tilted his head as if he didn't recognize himself at first, then pushed past Heero up to the glass and squinted, preening unhappily at his matted hair.

"Is that what he looks like? Then he is a mess, just as you say he is." The God of Death frowned unhappily and blew a bang out of his eyes. "How would anyone like him if he is this uncleanly?"

"Just take a shower and get cleaned up," Heero grudged up for an answer, turning unceremoniously and walking back out the door and down the stairs. Calling vaguely out, he informed him, "You can borrow some of my old clothes when you're done," as he went casually down the stairs, empty beer bottle swinging in time at his hip clenched in his fist. By the time the sound of a tentative deity calling out for his arranged husband could be heard, Heero had already opened the cupboard hanging beside the refrigerator and fished out a packet of one of his mother's strongest teas for helping cure headaches and glared past the open cupboard door up at where the bathroom sat upstairs. Again, he heard it, a faint, almost mewling call that was inevitably the Shinigami.

"_Teishu_," the voice beckoned cautiously from afar. Heero could just picture him leaning against the doorframe, leaning out into the hall, and fiddling with an eartail, and shut the cupboard door to start walking. He stopped at the sink, where he pulled a kettle from the cupboards beneath and filled it with tap water. He was still calling as Heero put it on the pristinely clean stove range and turned the corresponding dial to High.'

_I'm not going in there. I'm not going in there._ He ground his teeth almost rhythmically as he chanted it, repeated it over and over again in his head until it would become ingrained in his thoughts, moving about the kitchen but not really able to concentrate on the cup of tea that he was making for himself.

"Um, _Teishu-sama_?" Shini laughed nervously, trying to get his attention with an even more formal address tacked onto his nickname for the mortal. He was anxiously drumming his fingers on the frame, standing just as Heero had predicted, out of his sight. "May he please inquire you of something?"

_I am not going in there. If he says what I know he is going to, then I'm not to go help him. I'm not going in that bathroom, I'm just going to sit down, have a cup of tea, and ask myself what the hell possessed me to agree to something like this. What was I thinking? He's more trouble than a child, and I've never taken care of anyone but myself. What was I thinking when I accepted_?

Another, more rational voice answered, though it was still the same one: his own._ He will be gone soon enough; you can bare through it._

"He, uh, that is—well," the voice drew out tentatively, still heaving artificial, nervous laughter drifting down from the ajar bathroom door. It was one of the strangest noises he'd heard in a long time, aside from the inhuman shriek of a vengeance spirit, the sound of another voice in his home when it felt like it had been him, the ghosts, and the silent walls for far too long, but he wasn't going to listen to it. He wasn't. He was not going in there to help him, because that was exactly what he was going to ask him.

"He is, uh, unfamiliar with the bathing room of modern mortals, so perhaps there is a large pool of water he could use instead?" Shinigami called out uncertainly, no doubt still twirling his eartail around his finger. "Why do you not have public bath houses anymore, anyway? He preferred those, very much so."

"This is ridiculous," Heero mumbled into the wooden grain of the cupboard where he'd bent his head forward and closed his eyes, grinding his teeth in the back of his mouth. "This is ridiculous," he repeated to himself, finally pushing away from the cupboard and taking the teakettle off the heat dutifully as he passed by on his way out to the hallway. He entered the bathroom just as the Shinigami had investigated enough to realize that the shower curtain pulled away to reveal a bathtub, which he recognized somewhat, and a very strange looking metallic facet that seemed more like a bulky crane neck and head emerging from the very wall itself.

The deity was sniffing around the edge of the bathtub and leaning forward to snatch up the familiar object that sat in a cove on the opposite wall. It danced wetly between his fingers and he tried to grab it with both fists, grinning happily, and it shot from his hand and clattered into the bathtub and glided down to the drain with a tiny trail of bubbles. Shini laughed. "Mortals make such entertaining things!" he commented happily to himself, even though he believed he was alone in the room. "'They will bathe themselves with the fat of swine and call it soap." He giggled again and reached down into the bottom of the tub to snatch at the slippery soap again.

"I don't think that's what they use anymore," Heero corrected blandly from the doorway. "People today would call it animal cruelty if it were."

The Shinigami twitched a little in surprise to hear his voice so suddenly behind him, and as a result, the bar of soap he'd managed to capture again escaped him and fell to the floor. He turned and looked at the mortal for a second before smiling and laughing nervously, "You startled him."

He also started scratching at the back of his head with one hand as Heero just heaved a little sigh in returned and put the soap back in the tub, frowning at the puddle of bubbles on the floor it had left behind. He barely even looked at the deity as he started talking, too involved in mopping up the suds pile with the hand towel that had been neatly folded beside the sink. Shini sidestepped politely, clasping his hands behind his back so that his shoulders arched unassumingly, and he just watched the mortal clean up the floor for a moment.

When Heero straightened up again and put the hand towel beside the sink, he thanked him happily, "He is grateful, and he is sorry that he is causing you inconvenience." All the while with that effortless, effervescent smile plastered across his face.

"Don't mention it," Heero mimed back from the automatic, polite response mechanism in his head, as he let out another sigh and dutifully looked over to the deity standing in his bathroom. "You'll want me to tell you how all this works, huh?" he asked dully. He hadn't expected to become so much of an elementary teacher in the last few days—of course, he'd never expected he'd ever see a Shinigami except maybe over his bed in the one night late into his life, either. He thought maybe Shini would ask to learn the alphabet next.

Shini's smile grew smaller, though it was twisting into more of a pixyish little smirk. It seemed as if it might be too smug to even open to speak when he replied, "He supposes so, yes. He wants to learn all about you mortals while he is still here, and this is a good beginning as any."

"Whatever," Heero mumbled back automatically as he was about to turn to peel back the shower curtain and tell him which faucet was the hot water and get the hell out of that bathroom, but he paused before doing so and maintained a flat look at the Shinigami. "You really want to learn something?" he asked.

The deity standing beside him looked intrigued, almost as if he'd won a little lottery. With an eager nod, his smile grew a little wider, a little more impish. And there was a slight decrease of the distance separating them, though Heero didn't bother to notice it. He was too busy trying to push every thought out of his head, since they only caused him more trouble than they were worth in the end.

"Alright," he began flatly, though the deity was absorbed completely in his words to come. Again, that distance was fractionally shortened. "When you're speaking, you don't have to refer to yourself in the third person every time. I wouldn't be offended or anything if you didn't."

"Shinigami likes to be polite, he does," Shini urged, nodding his head in all seriousness. "He sees nothing wrong with it, _Teishu_, and besides, he really has not learned his full English. Are you offended he does not use the right words? He apologizes if so."

Heero let out a little scowl at the formal addressing as he shook his head unhappily and clarified, "Just when you call me—that." He had the sudden urge to step back, noticing now how he was slowly getting closer, whether it was a conscious move or not on the Angel of Death's part.

"What, _Teishu_?" He furrowed his eyebrow slighlty and took another step forward with his bare feet on the cold tile, almost shoving his nose into the mortal's face. He was puckering his face up in confusion—the exact way he had shortly before bursting out in tears. "But that is who you are, _Teishu_. _Anata wa otto desu_," he emphasized, stopping his subconscious approach short with only a foot to spare between them. That damned twisted expression still held his face.

"I know that," Heero protested calmly, taking that step backwards he wanted. "It's just unnecessary. You don't have to keep calling me that. I have a name, you know, and you can use it. It doesn't bother me." The Japanese man had to tilt his head ever so slightly to meet eye to eye now that he had lost the height advantage to the God of Death by toeing off his shoes at the door. It wasn't as if he were towering over him, wielding a bloody _ogama_, and shrouded in shadow, but nevertheless that image had come to mind when he had realized that the Shinigami was slighlty taller than him.

In response, said deity lifted an eyebrow curiously, genuinely surprised he'd admitted that. "_Honto ni? _He had stepped back as well, though it was only to half-nervously shift his weight from foot to foot, his slight movement making the light flicker over his black silk robes. Somehow, it had never failed today that Shini would find his finger curling around the tips of his eartails as he spoke nervously to his arranged husband, most likely trying to win an argument. "He thought that you would become upset with him again."

"I told you before I didn't want you calling me that. I said it'd be fine to call me by name. And besides, in a few days, you'll be leaving and I won't be your husband any longer," Heero pointed out, folding his arms to emphasize his point and his impatience. He had laundry to catch up on, in any matter, and he would rather not spend his time debating with the disheveled Shinigami.

"_Hai_, but—" Shini's mouth gaped in uncertainty, making continuous curls with his fingers and a lock of his matted brown hair as it did. Heero could swear he almost heard his bare feet making awkward shuffling noises from underneath his supernatural, black swathed robes.

Shinigami swallowed nervously once before continuing, looking down his nose at the floor. "He was very sure that you would hate him beside it all, even if he did call you Heero. So, he used polite names. He thought it would make him more agreeable. He only wanted your acceptance, _Teishu_."

Heero kept his lips lightly pressed together, simply looking at the Shinigami's dirt-smudged face with an unreadable expression. Soon, his quiet attention had turned away from how knotted his long tresses of hair were and how unwashed his face appeared, to how human his peach skin was and how distinct the lines of his collarbone and shoulders were. He turned toward the shower curtain and again dismissed himself from the topic with an uncomfortable, "Whatever," beneath his breath, and simply preoccupied himself with peeling the curtain back.

"If you want to wash up," he explained, jabbing vaguely at the twin faucets, one marked with a faded, half-chipped H' and the other a similar-looking C,' and picking the metal plug out of the drain, "all you have to do is turn this knob until the water is hot. There's some soap and conditioner if you want to use them—they're those bottles sitting on the edge over there." From behind him, there were a few quiet shuffling noises as the Angel of Death obediently came over to the side of the bathtub and started absorbing each of his arranged husband's words. His eyes flickered from the hair conditioner to the mortal's face, and back again.

"Just turn the dial item?" He asked, and prodded an unassuming finger at the strange-looking faucet.

"Yeah," Heero grunted vaguely, giving him a slight look through the corner of his eye. Once he thought he wasn't needed to explain, the mortal man turned about and started out the door, already rubbing at his forehead with the heel of his hand before he'd even walked through the doorframe. "There's some clean towels beneath the sink, and you can borrow my old clothes, if you need too," he reminded, calling over his shoulder without turning his head.

The Shinigami managed to stutter out, "Thank you, _Tei_—Heero."

Still hovering at the rim of the bathtub, the longhaired deity grimaced uncertainly, biting back a section of his lip as his eyes scanned over the unfamiliar scene. He was more accustomed to fetching the hot water needed for bathing himself, or rather, paying a dime for the one in the saloon while in town with his last caretaker, and he stared strangely at the metal, stork-like head that extended from near the ceiling.

Shini glanced again over his at the retreating back of the mortal, but he hated to bother the blue-eyed man any further than he had. Whatever mischievous plan had shown through in his grin beforehand had succumbed to his uneasiness, trying to appease Heero whenever he could, and he was frowning uncertainly as he reached out for the faucet dial and twisted it a little ways. He didn't wait longer than a second to hear the distinct sound of water rushing through copper pipes and making it's way up into the second-level bathroom. Turning his wide eyes toward the stork-head and leaning curiously over into the shower, Shini heard the foreboding sound making its way closer and closer. A second later, he yelped and balked backwards, furiously shaking his head free of the ice cold, unsoftened water that had "pounced" on him.

A short time later, Heero had reluctantly shuffled back into the bathroom and calmed the spooked Shinigami by tossing a towel over his dripping head and plugging up the drain and filling the tub instead. It shouldn't have surprised him that a being such as this particular Angel of Death, one with the mind of a child, might have a certain fear of showers, but he hadn't planned on it. It was just another thing, he supposed, and went about dutifully turning the dial to the hot water and letting it fill with clear water.

"There," he said, standing up and looking over to his supernatural guest. "You'll be fine now."

Shinigami grinned sheepishly from underneath the edge of the towel. "Thank you, Heero." An instant later, by some unearthly force, the image of the disheveled black-winged deity had disappeared from where he'd stood only a moment before, and reappeared noiselessly sitting on the rim of the bath, stark naked. The discarded robes had somehow materialized into an unexpected pile of billowing black on the tiles beside Heero's feet, and the Shinigami obviously had no shame about it, as he was testing the waters with his toe and slipping into the water happily. His tail—and yes, much to Heero's uneasiness, it was an authentic tail—was coiling lazily in the air.

Despite having seen him before without a good deal of his clothing, Heero still had the modesty to glance away. Of course, the previous time had been while he had been trying to seduce him, but somehow now it was different. He got the sinking feeling that the heat in his face was not from the single bottle of alcohol he'd had at all. Trying to be discreet, or something awkward like it, the mortal man turned and started again to walk out the door, hopefully for the last time. Meanwhile, while he'd been busy filling with color, the Shinigami had slipped comfortably into the waist-deep water and started tossing water onto his face and methodically dipping his head into the water to cleanse himself like a black-winged bird dipping in a birdbath. He was aware of the fact that most mortals now avoided public bathing, or even seeing one another without clothing, but he had been raised otherwise and didn't understand why any one made such fuss about human figures. Certainly it was nothing an adult like Heero had not seen before, no?

Of course, the impish grin had returned to his face as he lifted his head and let the warm water drip across his dry face and clog up his eyelashes. He turned that smile onto the retreating back of the mortal man and shook his head briefly, letting the tiny droplets splatter the walls around him. Just as Heero's hand had closed around the doorknob and prepared to shut it behind him, he called out pleasantly, "Would you help him to preen his feathers, Heero?"

It made his back tense up as he stopped and looked pointedly over his shoulder at the wide grin plastered over the Shinigami's face. Said smirk only split wider, more mischievous as the seconds passed silently between them. When the simple request didn't work, Shini imploringly pouted his lip and drew his eyebrows upward and together in a strange but highly effective puppy-faced expression. It might have caused any normal man to give in, seeing how he exuded this natural bewitching effect, coming from his mother's side, but it took a few moments to break down Heero Yuy.

"He cannot reach all his feathers himself," the Angel of Death explained innocently, sitting in the steaming-hot water and leaning forward with another smirk festering on his face. He weakly tried to reach onto his back and demonstrated that he could indeed not reach all of them, and his entire wingspan had traces of encrusted Darkness oil marring its supernatural luster.

"You would be the gentlemen to help him, no? He is asking politely, _Teishu-sama_, and it is considered rude in all realms to refuse a guest," he reminded complacently, tilting his head to the side so that a trail of water ran down the side of his face.

"Hn," Heero grunted vaguely, still frowning indecisively back at him from his position in the doorway.

To convince his stubborn arranged husband, Shini fluttered his wings slightly, so that the long, raven-black flight feathers brushed softly against the walls and one wing extended lazily over the edge of the bathtub. Heero frowned, dreading secretly just how fascinating the sight of those wings extending from his back were, watching the auxiliary muscles that held them in place shift and twist beneath the skin of his back. Dreading how much he enjoyed the sight, despite himself. Granted, the gods could be considered most beautiful beings, but this was getting ridiculous—

"Please?" Shini clapped his hands together, palms pressed against one another almost as if he were begging to his own deity, and pouted his bottom lip. "He swears he doesn't bite."

"Will you be quiet then?" Heero asked skeptically, still with his arms folded impatiently. "You promise you'll stop stirring up trouble? I've only got one more bottle of beer and I'm almost out of aspirin, so I'm not gonna stand for any more bullshit to deal with. Understand?"

"Of course, _Teishu_!" he gushed automatically, grinning and excitedly ringing his arms around his knees as he pulled them to his chest. The filling water in the bathtub splashed with the movement and a little puddle formed on the rim of the tub, which only grew when the Shinigami happily kicked out a leg so that his toes were under the faucet, twisting happily beneath the warm flow of water.

There was still the undeniable traces of a troubled scowl on the mortal man's face, even as he grudgingly walked up to the bathtub, occupied by one smudged Angel of Death. "And don't call me that, either," he reminded Shini with one of his usual curt growls.

"Whatever," Shini smiled, lazily stretching his wings and his arms. "Whatever you say, _Heero_." Then he promptly ducked his head into the steaming hot water, sat back up, and shook off the excess like a wet dog. Heero only acknowledged it with a roll of his eyes and a tense little snort.

Some time later, the scene played out as such: One twenty-five year old Japanese man who had lived alone since the time of his parents untimely deaths in his teens was sitting on the edge of his own bathtub, perched carefully on the rim and keeping an equally precise stare pinned on the guest that sat in the filled bath. That guest only happened to be a young God of Death exiled from his home in Hades' realm, and currently squeezing a palmful of shampoo into his hands and furiously rubbing them together until it frothed and the bubbles dripped through his fingers. He laughed, even though he could feel the glare of his arranged husband at the back of his head, and started kneading his soapy hands into his hair. He was humming happily to himself an old medieval troubadour song as he started to clean his long tresses of the Darkness oil.

Heero sat stiffly at the side of the bathtub, forcing himself to stare at the traces of bubbles drifting along the surface of the water. The faucet still ran at full, the dial cranked as high as Heero would allow it. The Shinigami had explained that he was used to the heat, since he had been born in Hell, after all, but Heero simply refused the request to turn it as high as it would go.

Shini's head was doused in Heero's shampoo down to his shoulders and he had taken the rest of his hair over his shoulder and started working the soap into it. He grinned over his shoulder at the mortal, and automatically he tensed in return. "Listen, you may start preening his feathers now, please," he asked politely, though the impish grin offset that sentiment in not the most comforting of ways. That's why Heero only stared back in return, still wary of that mischievous smile. He wasn't blind or dumb—he could guess what it meant, in a situation like this.

"The sooner you help him, the sooner you may have another of your alcoholic beverages," Shini reminded him brightly, tapping a soapy finger in the air. "And since you have none remaining, you better hurry if you want to go purchase some more, Heero." He laughed and doused his head with water again, ready to start on the second cleansing. The mud and supernatural gunk was caked in his hair and feathers too much to be rid of in one cycle of rinsing. Shini went happily to work washing out the snarls in hair, and fluffed his wings expectantly.

He had a point. Making an impatient face, Heero asked flatly, "What am I supposed to do, then?"

Shini was scrubbing at either side of his head with both of his hands, massaging his scalp as he went along, eyes closed happily. "Just clean, please, _Teishu-sama_. He doesn't care how."

"I said don't call me that."

"What?" Shini asked, when he had lifted his head out of the water again.

He was innocently sticking a finger in his ear and trying to get the water out. It made Heero scowl, but he sighed and dutifully began his cleaning task. "Never mind," he muttered under his breath, lifting his hand tentatively up to the nearest black wing. The automatic though of, This is ridiculous,' floated into his mind, but a more frightening, more motivating one came to mind. If he didn't just suck it up and get it over with, he'd have to spend more time in a bathroom, with a particularly devilish Angel of Death, bathing him. That was enough to spur him to start running his fingers through the silky black feathers, brushing away the residues and dirt lodged there.

He ignored the fact that the Shinigami started purring faintly and grinning to himself as he continued to wash out his hair, with a lump of shampoo in his bangs. He ignored it, and instead forced himself to focus on the wings that he was preening. No, not his wings—he still couldn't watch the muscles of his back twisting with the slightest flutter without losing himself. He focused instead on the trails of Darkness oil lacing the feathers. As soon as he ran his fingers over some, it would dissipate in a small wisp of black vapor, triggered by his skin. That vapor disappeared into the air silently and it was a little unnerving for a mortal to watch. Shinigami, however, didn't seem to be bothered and went on obliviously with kneading out his hair for a second time.

While Shini washed his hair a third, a fourth, even a fifth time to make sure it was completely clean, Heero was engrossed in his task, slowly losing the awareness that he was sitting on the edge of the tub, with a God of Death. He often got wrapped up in his tasks and thought of nothing but just working. He ran his fingers through the shorter, lighter feathers close to the bone, continuing until long, black flight feathers slid between his fingers and little wisps of black dissolved in the air. The dirt fell away with a little effort, and the Darkness oil was gone after a single preening. He was so involved in the process that he even started picking out fallen feathers and smoothing ruffled ones back into place.

He didn't notice that Shini had finished with rinsing out his hair and simply hunched over happily in the water, relishing the feeling of having his wings preened by hand—usually he just dipped them in a little water and shook them out, but it felt much better this way. His head was half-dipped in the water, and his lips bubbled happily while his _Teishu's_ hands stroked through his feathers again and again. He even started fiddling with the bar of soap in his bliss while Heero kept cleaning meticulously.

He barely even noticed that he'd become so obsessed with the Shinigami's wings, and leaned over the water to reach at a dislodged down feather on his far wing. However, it wasn't completely detached and when Heero pulled on it, Shini yelped loudly and sat bolt upright with a splash. The soap burst out of his hand like a greased pig and fell to the tiled floor beside the mortal's foot.

"Sorry," Heero mumbled, as he realized what he was doing and came out of his focused haze.

"Ow, ow." Shini was rubbing at the bone in his wing, where the feather had been ripped from the skin, biting on the tip of his tongue. "You should be more careful, _Teishu_. That hurt."

The mortal man leaned down and picked up the bar of soap out of the puddle of warm, sudsy water forming on the tiles, dripping over the rim of the tub, and turned, saying dully, "I thought I said I don't want to be called that anymore." He had no expectations to find that he had been ambushed in a way, and he froze up once he realized that he'd been caught.

A hand, pale in comparison to his Oriental skin tone, wrapped around his hand, closing it around the bar of soap and at the same time holding him in place. The Shinigami had moved silently and now leaned against the side of the tub, dripping slightly onto Heero's jeans. His hair shimmered a rich chestnut color, freshly washed and lustrous in the artificial lighting, and he was sitting in Heero's shadow as he leaned slightly over the tub. He was leaning upward to keep his face close to the mortal's and smiled silently at him.

They were so close that only their breath separated them from each other, and the hazy, glowing look in the Shinigami's eyes made it clear that he would only get closer as he gazed at the mortal's face. His eyes were crossing slightly together as he watched Heero's lips shamelessly from such a close range and watched him freezing up nervously and not moving from his spot. Even as he inched closer, he didn't snap out or jerk away, and that was enough non-protest for an invitation in the Shinigami's opinion.

"But you must see, he cannot help himself," Shini confessed to him, beneath his breath. He leaned up in the shadow of his mortal husband, his inhuman violet eyes simmering with lust, and consummated his lips with Heero's in a hungry kiss, one that had been started and not finished in the tool shed in the deep woods of America.

At first, it was his first instinct to jerk away from the Shinigami, and the Shinigami expected it any second but kept on, craving any contact he could steal. When the first few instants passed and there was no immediate recoil, Shini balled his fist around the mortal's shirt and pulled him down closer until he could press his half- damp chest up against Heero's collarbone, sucking on his lip as they parted for breath. Their chests remained pressed together, adhered by the mortal's now dampened clothing, with Heero pulled nearly on top of the Shinigami by his collar. He was breathing unevenly as he stared down into a flushed humanoid face, and it gazed voraciously back.

It made him think of the few other times before he'd been in a situation such as this, years ago. There had been a few mutual, enjoyed kisses with a girl just leaving high school, but that relationship had blossomed into nothing special and fizzled away with much ado. And there had been one man, one experimental night at a bar with an acquaintance with much too much eyeliner and much too many rounds, that had ended after a single fling in Tokyo.

And now, what had he moved onto—realizing he didn't overtly enjoy the company of either men or women? Gods? Was he really that perverted by his own lonesome life, that he had lost all sense of affection, even toward the memories of his deceased parents? And why had the Shinigami needed to come, and stir up questions like that, which he had no answers for?

Shini seemed to be taking his own sweet time and liberty while the Heero was being overwhelmed by his doubts, and so much so he didn't much realize that he was being kissed. The deity taking whatever opportunity he could get to indulge himself with his mandated husband before his temper came back and he shoved him away. He hadn't moved since first being captured by the lips, and the lack of a refusal was all it took for Shini's lascivious heritage to have its holiday and start running the tip of his tongue coaxing over Heero's lips. It was his moment inside the candy store he'd been staking for weeks, fueled by centuries of immortal heartaches and the woes of an exile without love in an unwelcoming realm.

The Shinigami slid backwards until his back brushed against the wall, until his freshly preened feathers shivered against the tiles, and drew back for a moment's breath. He stared at his arranged husband through half-lidded eyes, and let his lips brush against Heero's, whimpering hungrily as he waited, begged for a response. When Heero didn't react besides to gasp unevenly into the Shinigami's warm breath, he keened out pathetically and crushed his lips back onto the mortal's mouth.

And that's when Heero realized he could taste it again—that hint of cinnamon in the Shinigami's lips. It infuriated him, wondering where the hell it had come from and why, how he would be able to taste it from the Angel of Death. There was no logic—unless every Shinigami tasted of mortal spices, he didn't know how it had come to be. But at the same time, there was something about it, so strange and indescribable, that made him want to lean deeper into the kiss and just enjoy the sensual pleasure of it, loose himself and his worldly burdens of work and death and loneliness.

Apparently, whatever small response he may have given, it didn't come soon enough for one very hungry Shinigami. The hand on his collar, keeping him close, flew away and clamped down on his back, pulling him desperately over the rim of the tub and twisting him to the side.

The Shinigami moaned into his mouth like a child demanding its favorite toy and trapped him beneath him, making sure that that toy would not leave him. His wet hair was sliding over his shoulder and his wings were flapping intermediately. The rod holding the shower curtain clattered and budged slightly each time the Shinigami accidentally knocked it with one of his wings. His tail was twisting madly as he pushed the body of the mortal beneath him, still crushing his lips against his even as Heero started slipping underneath the water, his legs on either side of the Shinigami.

Right about then, the dreamy state wore off and he very quickly realized he was half-submerged, fully clothed, beneath the naked Shinigami and unable to breathe. The last time he checked, he hadn't been able to breathe water or live long with oxygen without suffocating first, and he felt a little panic surge up in him.

Shini didn't seem to be relenting anytime soon, and the desperation, the frenzy with which he was pursuing the kiss wasn't wholly comforting when it was used to pin him beneath the eager Angel of Death.

At the same time Heero started to grunt and twist in protest, the water level reached its limit and started spilling over the edge of the tub. Steaming water poured out onto the tiles, soaking the bathmat and Shinigami's black silk robes sprawled out on the floor. The faucet continued pumping water out at full capacity, and it was only because of that minor distraction that the Angel of Death hesitated in his overly eager advances long enough for Heero to find himself and surge up into a sitting position with his back against the wall. He took a deep gasp of air as he brushed up against Shini's face and lunged at the dial, twisting it off as fast as he could.

With reddened, puffy lips, the Shinigami's moaned breathy against the side of his face, "_Teishu_—"

"Get the hell off me," Heero ground out flatly as he pressed his back against the wall as leverage to stagger up and away from the enclosing circle of the deity's arms. The hand that had clawed at his back, at his sopping wet shirt to get at the skin beneath it, clenched once before falling free. When Heero stood up, drenched in his clothes—save for his sock feet, which had been spared—he stared down harshly at the Shinigami. "What the hell were you thinking? You could have drowned me!"

Blushing a mortified red but not bothering to cover himself, Shini's lustful gaze shifted to a defensive frown. He curled up in the bathtub and stared up back at him. "He is sorry! He swears would never do such a thing, _Teishu_!"

"Well, you weren't showing any signs of stopping anytime soon," he snapped back, stepping indignantly out of the tub and trekking across the bathroom floor. Heaping puddles of water fell away from his clothes as he stepped out, scattering more water across the tiles.

Shini scowled over his shoulder, still curled up ashamedly against the rim of the tub. The hurt was shimmering through his upset expression. "Well, if Teishu was so upset about it, he did not give him any signal to stop! He did not refuse him!" He bit at his lip as the mortal man trudged angrily out of the door, ignoring him. "You should start talking to him, perhaps, and this whole situation could have been avoided, no? You should have just pushed him away, then!"

"Forget it." he growled back. "Just forget it, and hurry up and finish."

Heero slammed the door as he left for his bedroom and a change of clothes, dripping water in buckets as he crossed the hall. Opening the door, he could still hear the frustrated whine of a black-winged deity, and quickly shut it behind him to block it out. His stomach was stewing with frustration as he undressed, balled up the soaking clothing, and forcefully threw it into the hamper. "I can't believe I ever agreed to this," he muttered as he stood over the basket, staring off into nothing.

"He's such a child," Heero hissed, though there were still little, warm sparks in his chest when he thought of the moments before. "I'm not his possession, that nervy little brat. He can't just do whatever the hell he wants to me." He balled his fists at his sides. "I'm such an idiot to agree to something like this." The mortal shuddered unhappily and turned to open his closet and find new, clean, and very dry clothes.

* * *

__

_Anata wa otto desu _ You are my husband

_Ogama_ Scythe

_Honto ni_? Really?

* * *

A/N Man, do I always get carried away? 7,000 words? This was supposed to be the fun, relax-and-have-a-good-time story! Anyway, I know I'm a tad late for this chapter. Usually it's only ten days or so for each new installment, but I've been a little off this week, writing wise. I must not be lavishing my tiny Buddha statue with enough affection or something. I know that I wasn't too erotic with Shini's advances, but there's plenty of time for that people, don't you worry. Oh boy, if you could only imagine how far this plot line stretches. It's like a railroad on a flat plane, extending off into the mountains for what looks like forever. There's some really sweet and clever, if I do say so myself twists in that railroad up ahead, and they're gonna create a whole lot of turmoil for the poor Arrogant Mortal. So don't worry, there will plenty o' citrus in the road ahead. Right now, we're about seventy, seventy-five percent through Arc I, but don't be surprised if that might change to sixty or fifty, if I get new ideas.

Oh, and thanks for all the very thoughtful tips on tackling my current nemesis: Geometry. I got a 'B' on my last quiz! Yeah, it's not a 'C'! My mom would kill me if she knew I got a 'C' on any quiz. No fucking kidding. I get grounded for shit like that. Ignore that and Have a Grade A Day!


	16. The Wind Cries Mary

Chapter 16

"The Wind Cries Mary"

Heero was sitting at the kitchen table, alone, when he heard the sound of the bathroom door opening. He was dressed in one of his old Japanese T-shirts, with brazen white _hiragana_ splayed across the chest, advertising for some oddball game show that had gone under years ago. He also had changed out of his sopping wet jeans for a rattier pair with tattered knees and a few tears in the hemming. He hadn't really been paying attention as he'd picked out a clean, dry change of clothing, and he hadn't really been concentrating as he had made himself that tea and drank it, mixing with the taste of alcohol in his stomach. Now, after staring at the woodgrain with a long-empty cup in his hands, he turned his head to glance at the hallway through the open archway leading into the kitchen.

He looked over his shoulder where he would have seen the bathroom door cracking open had there not been a wall there, listening dully. He heard the cautious footsteps of the Shinigami padding across the threshold, almost trying to steal away silently. Living in the same house for the majority, if not entirety, of his life, Heero could tell if a mouse sniffed upstairs or if someone was going left down this hallway, or humming to themselves as they walked into that room—he pretty much had a complete grasp over the goings-on in the house. After all, it was mostly empty nowadays, aside from himself.

The Shinigami treaded cautiously over the threshold and pattered across the hallway. He didn't want to consider what kind of state of dress he was in, or if he was dripping all over the carpet, so he focused on listening to the footsteps instead. They disappeared as they neared the closet directly across from the bathroom, and sounded as if they reappeared at the end of the hallway. The feet remained there for a brief minute, mostly likely staring out the window into the leaves of the tree towering beside the house. Shini apparently grew tired of gazing out the window, because again he seemed to instantly appear at the top of the stairs, the floorboards beneath the carpet letting out a tiny groan as his feet settled. Heero kept his head twisted over his shoulder as he stared at the wall.

He waited for the Shinigami to call out or start his descent down the stairs and wondered what he was doing when no answer came and his weight disappeared again. He simply shrugged to himself, dismissing it, and turned back around to stare at his empty glass. The mortal could hear his feet reappearing and scampering over the carpet in his room. That made him instantly turn his head back around and he squinted distressingly at the ceiling, over which his room lay, listening intently. He expected the feet to start wandering all about his room, doing only Hell knows what to the clean state of his bedroom, and to generally cause trouble.

Instead, the footfalls settled in the corner of the room near his dresser and the sounds of the drawers being pulled open was audible. The first drawer quickly shut again, a plain, soft _thunk'_ as it was closed, and Shini went searching through the first three before he settled on what was presumably the bottom drawer, where Heero kept most of his jogging clothes and his old, ill-fitting or tattered shirts used for messy housework or whatever would ruin perfectly good clothing. He rummaged through it for a second and it slid shut again. By then, Heero had turned his attention towards filling his cup again.

When the Shinigami's footsteps didn't reappear, and said deity didn't just magically appear himself from upstairs, he walked down to the living room sipping at his tea. He flicked on the light and flopped down on the couch after he'd set his mug down and lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling. He could run a five-minute mile, he had set every longstanding record at his high school, and he could bench press what men twice his size could, but put him in charge of a child and he would be exhausted by the second day. It seemed strange, but it also made sense.

Heero sat up and sighed to himself, taking a deep drink that was supposed to soothe him. He'd been alone for most of his formative life, and his tolerance for difficult people, namely mischievous children, had suffered because of it. There had been an instinct to march up to his room and make sure that it hadn't been demolished by a clumsy Shinigami, but that would mean facing him again. While he was still upset over being taken advantage of', if you will. And Heero was positive he'd rather clean up than try to keep a libidinous Angel of Death in line anymore.

He thought of the chores that had been neglected in his absence, as he sat on his couch sipping tea, of the plants in the window that needed watering. And when he glanced over to them, he saw how light it was outside. That prompted him to glance at the clock, and he frowned.

It was barely even noon. He tossed his head back against the couch in exasperation and heaved another sigh.

* * *

While a throbbing beat pulsed overhead through the glaring, multicolored rays of light emitting magically from the ceiling, Iria stood at a bar of pure, rosy crystal doing shots with a gaggle of rave-dressed vampires sitting on the ethereal barstools to either side of her. She was dressed in a virginal white dress, one which only extended a few inches past her hips, and her brilliant red lipstick was smeared slightly over her lips and the necks of a few of the barkeepers. The Goddess of Love laughed raucously as she flagged down one and ordered another round of drinks—of course, only ones with very suggestive names would do—and eagerly squealed and threw it down. Her face was flushed a bright pink and it suggested that not to far in the distant future she might find herself laid out on the bar engaged in body-shots. Her flock of newfound fanged drinking buddies giggled along with her as they joked and flirted the immortal night away in a bar in Valentine.

Nadette had her seat reserved directly beside Iria, who preferred to stand at the bar and dance casually with a drink in hand. The Goddess of Love's secretary was not quite as free-spirited after the same amount of drinks, or Hell, even three times the amount of alcohol, and was very happy just to be off work instead of trying to manage Aphrodite's chaotic bureau until late into the night. She took another level sip from her martini as her supervisor giggled lushly and readjusted her dress over her chest in a mischievous way, just so that the mythological creatures that hadn't been ogling her before, started to. The tall blonde woman rolled her eyes out of the corner of her eye and took another sip, rather than watch anymore.

Iria was shouting loudly along to the music and leaning against one of the gothic-looking Vampires as she did so, tossing her hair up in the style of every blonde, over-intoxicated spring breaker. They seemed to circling in closer every time that Nadette glanced out of the corner of her eye at them, only a fraction closer than they had the last time, but definitely drawing closer around the very drunk and very, uh—_libertine_ Aphrodite. Not that she would be insulted by it anymore, because of the sheer frequency of similar happenstance, but it was becoming more and more of a bother to simply supervise her supervisor as she unashamedly lavished the attention she got after she had a few alcoholic ambrosias. The hungry gleam in the eyes of the undead drinking comrades was growing more and more unnerving as Iria flirted with them shamelessly, even going so far as to grope a few with a laugh and another sip of her drink.

The secretary idly flicked at the metallic chains hanging down from either side of her cat-eye glasses, and finally looked back over to Iria. She was blathering drunk by now and leading her favorite Vamp off toward the dance floor, though she could hardly take a straight step without staggering four to the right or left. The flock of undead quickly followed after them in a silent, lip-licking manner. That was the last warning signal the normally solicitous secretary could ignore.

"Miss Iria!" The thudding bass of a mortal-style swing song swallowed up her voice before it could even travel a foot from her mouth and it went unheard. The barkeep passed by, shaking his head as he went to toss the third bottle of premium ambrosia booze emptied by the lush Goddess of Love herself. Nadette stood up off the barstool and called out again, just as the blonde goddess stumbled on her stilettos and took a graceless fall to the floor.

The Vampire she'd been leading just stood over her and started at her sprawled over the floorboards, in a very Courtney Love fashion. Her awkward position, on her stomach with the legs twisted up beneath her and her one hand still holding a drink, served to emphasize all her curves, whether they be good or bad. She drunkenly sat up, her short, tight dress ruffled out of place and affording all a free show, and squinted around in the bright lights in her alcohol-induced haze.

Nadette sighed and started walking over to her flush-faced supervisor. She could empathize now with the goddess' motherly troubles—watching over her was probably just as difficult as watching over her son. They both shared a lack of limitations that at times was blatantly obvious. She'd only met Shini a few times, but the similarities were there. The secretary was acquainted enough with Iria to notice them, or at least she hoped she would be, after serving five decades as her secretary/vice-president. With only one staff member—herself—she'd had many more responsibilities than simply answering the phones.

"Miss Iria, let's go home now!" she called out over the din as best she could, definitely not being as loud and fiercely extroverted as her employer. "Miss Iria!"

As soon as she tried to walk over to her inebriated friend, there was a veritable wall of undead standing between her and the slurring woman on the floor. The secretary, being as tall as she was with her heels on, stepped back and held a hand to her chest, startled. "Excuse me," she said humbly, bowing her head in the face of the other Vampires whom had been carefully eyeing her employer. She tried to step forward through the crowd, and again they pressed together and refused it.

"Gentlemen, please. There's no need to become rash about anything; I am simply trying to assist Miss Iria home," Nadette managed to get out, not stumbling even though her heart had begun thundering like a hummingbird's. She was only a spirit—they were Vampires: the cursed undead bodies of humans. And they were tens, perhaps even a hundred times more powerful than she was physically. It definitely wouldn't turn out well should there be a brawl of any sort.

The tallest Vampire cocked his head up at her with a sharp look.

By now, her face had flushed an anxious, fretful pink for all to see under the bright, flashy lights. The secretary clutched her hand to her breast, beginning to have enough sense to start fearing for her safety in a situation like this, with hungry Vamps encircling her whenever she tried to move forward. "I am telling you, gentlemen, there's no need for any—"

The group started laughing in a raucous, playful way that just came off more sinister than anything and the secretary balked back a step. Their dangerous, hungry gleam seemed to direct itself on to her and she could feel her heart start fluttering in her chest as she took another step back. The Vampires took another toward her, still snickering amongst themselves, and Nadette nervously glanced past them to see Iria stagger up, trip drunkenly, and drop her glass so that it shattered on the floor. Luckily, the barkeep heard it and turned his head towards the sound and saw the situation unfolding. It might have ended badly had he not stepped in and told the Vampires off, managing to get them to slink off to another corner of the bar.

Still ruffled by the encounter, Nadette nodded a polite thanks towards the bartender and quickly walked over to her employer, who was still sitting haplessly on the floor, drunk and light-headed. It wasn't the first time she'd picked her off the floor after a night out on the town, but it was the first time she had to carry her out the door, thrown awkwardly over her shoulder and holding her legs to make sure she didn't fall. Even though Iria was barely coherent, red-faced, slurring, and thrown over someone's shoulder, she still managed to wink at a few people before they went out the door.

* * *

After a while, Heero had picked up a book on the table beside the couch. He didn't even bother to glance at the cover before he opened it to a random page and started reading. He wasn't overly intrigued by the story or anything—he'd read it countless times in his teenage years—but it did take his mind off the current situation, the perfect aspirin to the perpetual headache plaguing him. He didn't get further than four pages before the source of that headache returned, walking quietly into the living room and standing next to the arm of couch where Heero was laid out, reading silently. The mortal man reluctantly lifted his head to look at the Shinigami, coming to accept that he was eventually going to have to face him again despite himself, but he was disappointed if he was expecting the guilt of two puppy eyes set on him.

The Shinigami wasn't even paying attention to him. As soon as he'd wandered into the living room, dressed in Heero's clothes and generally pouting to no one in particular, he'd forgotten the whole incident he'd been upset about and started wandering around the room, staring up at the decorated walls. Heero had hardly changed a thing in the house when it came to décor; the way his mother had put it was decent enough, so he had no need to move it around except to clean.

Shini didn't even glance over at his mortal husband, even as he stared as his back, moving around the room. He was too busy marveling at the pictures—the _color_ pictures!—of Heero's family, the way it had been before the tragic deaths that had left him orphaned. Snapshots of military functions, vacations, birthday parties and first-days of school. Shini got a very special kick out of a picture of Heero as a young child kicking and fussing as he tried to dodge the dress shoes that were being shoved onto his feat for that first day of school.

His mother, Yumi, was displayed in one picture in her finest kimono and in another in her regular blouse and knee-length skirt, posing with her best friend in front of their high school, backpack slung over each shoulder. She also had big, square glasses that made her slender face appear even more dainty and innocent than to begin with. But those only appeared once. And there were the standard military portraits of Heero's father, Odin, looking very distinguished in his pressed, polish, and impeccable uniform, staring seriously into the camera, but still glowing with pride. There was one of him sitting at a table with an arm slung warmly around his wife and smiling ear to ear. His face was very handsome, especially while he smiled, and he knew that his son could be just as becoming if he'd just gain a little sense of humor. He went on to more pictures of extended family, uncles, aunts, cousins, and Heero's grandparents, strolling around the edge of the room looking up onto the multitude of framed pictures.

Heero was still squinting at his back, a little surprised he was actually being ignored. That squint soon focused on Shini's clothes, however. He was wearing a pair of nondescript grey sweatpants, but the drawstring had long been lost and he'd rolled over the tops until it had fit on his hips. As he walked, the forked tail peaking out of the pants coiled lazily back and forth. The paint-smeared white-beater tank top he wore was loose and better fitted for Heero's shorter torso, so there as the shirt fluttered slightly it gave glimpses of his stomach, which was flat from a life of eating only the food of the Divines. There was one oddity with his wardrobe: the shirt was drawn up rather tight against his shoulder and armpit so that the straps could stretch around his wings and give them room for flexibility.

Well, there definitely weren't going to be wing-holes in any mortal clothing, Heero thought to himself, so what was he supposed to do? He watched the Shinigami wandering about staring raptly at the family photos and seemingly ignoring him for a few more seconds, then lowered his eyes to the book and sighed to himself.

Without warning, the Shinigami yawned and strolled around Heero's father's armchair to flop down in it. He smiled to himself as he settled into the comfortable chair, wiggling his back against it and stretching his bare toes out. His hair was still slightly damp the ends, dripping onto his shoulders and arms. Heero glanced over at him past the printed pages as the Shinigami even bounced in the seat a little, and there was a sudden little click. The deity lifted his head like a confused terrier and frowned, perplexed what had caused it. Heero knew what, of course, and it was obvious to him because an instant later the television sitting on the opposite side of the room lit up and came to life.

Heero knew what had happened, of course, and it was obvious to him because an instant later the television sitting on the opposite side of the room lit up and came to life. The sound of a dubbed Warner Bros. cartoon, complete with Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny arguing back and forth, "_Duck season_!" and "_Rabbit season_!" in Japanese, filled the room. It wasn't overly loud, just louder than the sort-of awkward silence between them. The mortal watched as the deity laid his eyes on the strange box for the first time in his life, waiting for a reaction. The normal adolescent response would probably be excitement, but instead he watched his face scrunch up slightly, almost skeptical. Still sitting in the chair with a leg slung over the arm, Shini squinted at the screen for another second and watched as a pudgy and enraged Elmer Fudd came forward with his rifle and it shot off in a cloud of puffy gray clouds.

Shini turned to look at Heero and made a face. "What's that?"

The mortal sat up and put his book down, still a little surprised that Shini hadn't burst forward and started licking the screen in joy. Not that he was disappointed, though. "Television," he said plainly.

"That thing with movies? That is this? The thing _Okasan_ told him about? The TV, the tube?" The Angel of Death continued to make a face and glanced back over at the color screen. Daffy's beak had just fallen off.

"_Really_?" he asked, the tone of disappointment obvious. When Heero just nodded in reply the Shinigami huffed almost angrily to himself, and continued to scowl at the hapless bald hunter and the two talking animals that eluded him.

His shoulders slumped and started digging around for the remote. He'd heard of it—of course he'd heard of television, even some of the gods had some to occasionally watch strange mortal broadcasts—and he'd remembered Iria talking about the stick that controlled it. When he shifted in his chair, the volume bar started inching across the screen, louder and louder. Shini dug through the folds of the armchair beneath him and eventually found it. Heero wasn't disappointed if he was expecting Shini to do something strange out of curiosity. He sniffed the remote in his hand first before trying to figure out the buttons.

"It's the red one," Heero said plainly, and the Shinigami quickly found it. A second later the sound of the television bulbs shutting down led into silence and the happy killing spree of the old, dubbed American cartoon ended. Shini sighed again and dropped the remote on a table beside the chair. "He is sort of disappointed." He looked over at Heero, who was still sitting on the couch. "Is all of mortal entertainment now artificial?"

"Artificial?" Heero asked, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. "Artificial how?"

However, the Shinigami was apparently too off on his own tangent to answer. "Do you not spend time with each other? Not all of them are so lonely as you, are they, _Teishu_? Don't you have something else to do? You know, to kill some time?"

"It's Heero, and yes, lots of stuff," he ground out. He'd at first been a little nervous while gauging Shini's reaction after he'd snapped at him—for a good reason, mind you—and now he could feel that upset sensation returning to his stomach. The least he could do was answer him; he was his arranged husband after all, or at least until the five days were up. There had to be some way that he could exploit that position to get him to at least call him by name.

"Like what?" Shini asked, tapping his bare foot in the air and leaning over the other arm of the chair as well, letting his washed hair brush at the floor. "Something that involves another mortal? What happened to that? Markets, forums, saloons—what about those?"

He glanced back and forth in the general, dismissive way as he made another of those tiny, regular frowns. Not an overly wide grimace—just a little tightening of his brows and one corner of his mouth falling. The Shinigami stared at him, awaiting an answer, and thought to himself how he slightly resembled an old curmudgeon with a young face that way. He answered plainly, "I'm not taking you to a saloon."

"_Ayaaaa_, of course not! He meant something like—um, something like—"

"Golfing?" Heero asked dully, his own private joke. He highly doubted that he would even have heard of such a thing, and he was slowly starting to enjoy the fact that he had few things over the deity's immortality, supernatural skills, and his disregard for things called laws of physics, ones that stated you could not walk through doors. He was up to date with the world, and the Angel of Death wasn't.

"No, that's not it," Shini said absently, staring at the wall as he tried to put it in words in his most recently learned language. "He cannot think of what to say, _Tei_—Heero. What would you do to pass your time?"

The mortal man just sighed a little and gave a lame answer off the top of his head. "I don't know. Read?"

"He can't read English." The Shinigami confessed to him with a tinge of an embarrassed flush. It was nothing to be ashamed of though—he had mastered quite a few languages out of pure necessity when he'd been placed with caretakers of various ethnicity and languages. He laid back over the other arm of the chair and sighed to himself, shrugging his shoulders as he took up a lock of his hair and toyed dully with it. "He doesn't know what there is to do in this era—he is just shocked that machines have replaced the horse. He is beginning to wonder if there is still entertainment in this strange mortal time."

Heero gave his own shrug of defeat, and stretched back out onto the couch with the guise of reading a book. Really, he was just going to try and straighten out his head before it got too tangled and medicated itself with a nice and painful headache. "Why don't you go get a coloring book or something?" Heero muttered to himself, opening the pages but not really seeing the words.

The Shinigami sat up in the armchair, making the old piece of furniture let out a few rusty squeaks as he moved, and beamed over towards Heero's side of the room. "That's a good idea—Shini loves to draw!"

Heero glanced at him past the side of the book and scoffed a little to himself in amusement. He'd meant it as a remark that he was childish, but the grin on the Shinigami's face somehow seemed more rewarding than a temper tantrum. It was much better than tears in any matter; very bad things could come from a crying Shinigami. He knew that from experience. He looked back to his book. "There's paper in the top left drawer of my desk in the study. Down the hall, second door on the right," Heero informed him, knowing that it would get him some peace and quiet.

Shini's face glowed, reminding the mortal man of the baby pictures he'd seen, where there was only one tooth in that smile. He had both his hands on the arm of the chair and both his legs flopped over the side, his heels tapping against the furniture excitedly. "Do you have carbon pencils?"

"Uh there's some crayons or something in the bottom drawer. Those will work," Heero tried awkwardly. He barely had time to form a thought before the image of the bright-faced God of Death sitting in his armchair, now with his tail wagging back and forth, disappeared as if he hadn't ever been there at all, like he'd been a figment of his imagination the entire time, and he heard weight reappearing on the floorboards of the down the hall. After a few minutes and the sounds of drawers being opened and slammed shut, the Shinigami sort of just fell into the dimension and existence again and appeared on the floor beside the couch, with one of Heero's books from inside the desk behind a sheet of paper. He clenched the box of Crayola basics in his mouth and grinned at his husband like a dog.

"Thmmank muu," he said sweetly. His teeth let go of the box and he pulled out a red one and started drawing seemingly random lines all over the page. Heero didn't say a word and watched the Shinigami sitting next to him create what looked like just random, whimsical lines that formed nothing really. He still held the book and still rested his head on the arm of the couch, but he hadn't read any further than he had fifteen minutes ago. Suddenly, there was a divine face pouting at him and Shini defensively pulled the book and piece of paper to his chest, holding it away from Heero and squinting in his face.

Automatically, Heero's face tensed up in another mini-frown. "What?" he asked edgily, a little frustrated he was being glared at for no reason at all.

"No _peeking_," Shini drawled, as if it were completely obvious, and scooted over a foot on the floor and faced Heero completely so that he wouldn't be able to glimpse at his budding piece of art. "No looking until he finishes! You should realize it's the same for all artists, _Tei_—Heero."

The married mortal man snorted to himself and actually turned to face the book he held open as if he didn't care, but he was a little less frustrated now that he was being called by name, even if it was difficult. He just didn't understand why he needed to be reminded every time the deity addressed him that he was, in fact, his legal and binding husband. At least for a few more days. Heero tried to read, to actually focus on the words instead of just mechanically rolling his eyes over them, but again he was interrupted. Shini happily moved back to the side of the couch and held up the piece of paper a few minutes later and grinned brightly.

"Come on! Tell him how it is!" he urged proudly, his tail flopping against the floor from side to side. Clutching the book to his side and using the other hand to shove the paper practically up underneath Heero's nose, the God of Death eagerly awaited his arranged husband's opinion and his smile grew even more, if that were possible, as he finally took the piece of paper. He put the book down against his thigh, not really caring if he lost his place, and it took a few seconds to realize that he was actually seeing what he thought he saw. His mouth gaped a little.

That spurred the approval-hungry deity to lean forward and his tail to wag at an even faster tempo. "How is it? D'ya like it? Oh, come on, answer him, please, Heero!"

"It's, uh—good, good," Heero mumbled in response, still a little astonished that it was just as good as it was. He'd assumed that from the way Shini had started scribbling randomly that it would somehow turn out to be just a tree and a sun in the corner, standard of any pre-schooler's artistic range. But this was definitely not a finger-painting.

Even though it was sort of blocky from using crayons, it was a very detailed and downright outstanding recreation of one of the family reunion pictures hung on the wall, with a little Shinigami added in the bottom corner of the family, sitting beside a young Heero and his blonde western cousin. He had drawn everything in quickly, but with enough proportion to make it work and just the right lines to recreate the faces of his aunts, uncles, cousins, and in-laws. It wasn't exactly a perfect recreation of the fourteen-year-old photograph, but it was as close as you would get with crayons and a few minutes. He hadn't gone back to look at it again—he'd done it all from memory.

Eventually, Heero realized all this and managed to croak out a little, "Wow."

Shini beamed and proudly ruffled his feathers. He was practically purring as he stood up and, barely able to restrain his happiness with the approval, asked jauntily while he rocked back and forth on his heels, "Anything else you mortals like to do with your time?"

The mortal man sat up on the couch and leaned back against the armrest as he tried to reign in his surprise. He hadn't expected this from the Shinigami at all and he opened his mouth a few times to make a sound, but quickly clamped it close again when he couldn't form the words. He looked up at the deity standing before him, in his old clothes, and made that discerning little frown again. "Where did you learn to draw like this?" There were deliberate lines across the paper that Heero was cultured enough to know were techniques of an artist, and he definitely didn't remembering hearing of an Art School for Demons and Other Creepy Things.

He waved it off casually, still grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, he learned that a while ago from an old painter. He cannot recall his name—he was only his caretaker for a very short time—but he remembers watching him paint some beautiful old church, he does. Took him an awful long time to finish, but he was very nice."

Heero still was shaking off his surprise when the Angel of Death started tugging at one of his eartails anxiously and said, "He also stayed with a good ole Texan ranch hand centuries ago—Hey, how about card playing! Shini learned how to in the Buckskin Saloon! Oh, it's been so long since he played poker. Come on, _Tei_—Heero!" He snatched him up by the wrist in his excitement and eagerly pulled him to his feet, the paper still clutched in hand. "One hand with him, please!"

Heero glanced once more at the crayon picture, still mildly astonished, then shook it off and shrugged. "Alright, I guess. Why not," he said casually, allowing himself to be pulled along as Shini went off eagerly sniffing for a deck of cards across the hall in the kitchen drawers.

* * *

__

_Hiragana_ a form of Japanese writing

* * *

A/N: Sorry to keep anybody waiting for the next installment. I really went over the usual 10-day writing period. The whole week and last weekend I was wrapped up in homecoming week plans and I didn't get to writing as much as I usually can. I was f-ing pumped that the class of 2007 might have such an upset and overthrown the class of 2005, one of the more enthusiastic classes we've ever had at our school, and take first place. Unfortuantely, even though the spirit week competitions were more fair than last year, we just didn't have the sheer power to overtake the Seniors, though Sophomores were right on their ass and _thoroughly_ kicked it in the yelling contest again and _again_, and the dress-up days. We were only seven or eight points beind, and we were way ahead of everyone else. The one thing I was really pissed at was how we got second place for the window-painting contest, which I slaved over. Okay, not really slaved, but I really worked on it, with my best friend Alicia and Brandon. I'll tell you what was unfair--we were beaten by the Juniors, who are notoriously apathetic in everything and we had four measly windows to work with and they had eight or nine and we had ten times more things in that small space. We had some pretty damn clever phrases and pictures for the theme, Butcher the Buffalos, and all they had, _all_ they had was a rotting buffalo carcass and a wierd-looking panther, our school mascot. I, being the manual laboror and artist of the grade, drew much better than them. Granted, they colored theirs in, but mine looked better with just line definiton, alright? The only thing we might have been marked down for was the abundance of blood. Two pictures had some splots of red, but that was not so bad, come on! Everyone's was gory! Yeah, I feel a little injustice, but I'm pretty damn proud of my Sophomores anyway. Thanks for sticking with the story, and I promise you guys I'll get out another chapter out quicker--and oh yeah, I try for my driving license Friday morning, so wish me luck. I'll need it. I'm probably going to get the heinous bitch with the lisp from the DMV. Ciao!


	17. What a Thief You Are

Chapter 17

"What a Thief You Are"

Lying beneath an old egg whisk and cuddled beside the old shoelaces in the miscellaneous drawer of the Yuy residence's kitchen lay what the Shinigami had been looking for: an old deck of playing cards. He excitedly flipped open the battered paper box that it came in and let the cards slide into his hand in a neat stack of fifty-two. It hadn't been used much since Heero's last whim to play solitaire, which had been a great while ago, and there was a little trail of dust that wafted off it as it was opened. Shini grinned again, turned and shut the drawer with his hip, and trotted across the kitchen tiles over to the kitchen table in his bare feet, sitting down across from his arranged mortal husband with a very smug expression starting to fester on his face.

Heero was sitting patiently in the chair opposite the Angel of Death, his arms folded casually over his chest, slumped back into a relatively relaxed position—the most at ease he'd felt for the last few days, that was for sure—and a nondescript expression on his face. He yawned at first—a silent, inconspicuous gesture that matched the Japanese man's outward, first impression as a reserved, polite-looking young man—and glanced back at the deity across from him and watched as he began shuffling the cards expertly, separating the deck and shuffling the two halves back together with trilling series of clapping noises. He did it effortlessly. Like he'd actually been a card dealer.

After bridging the cards together a few more rapid times, the Shinigami continued to shuffle the cards in his hands, stared evenly over at the mortal.

By now he was just flaunting his skills and a mischievous smile was conquering his face slowly as he asked, bringing the shuffling to a sudden stop in a neat, rectangular deck in his palm, "What would you like to play, Heero? He's familiar with everything. He's spent much time playing in the saloon, so don't worry about explaining anything." When he took the time to deliberate on that, the Shinigami amused himself by absently flipping the edges of the cards so that glimpses of fire hearts and diamonds and coal-black spades and clubs flashed. "Two-card? Five-card? Maybe even a little Texas Hold Em?"

"It doesn't matter to me," Heero eventually said, sitting up straight in his chair and folding his arms again as soon as he'd adjusted. "Play whatever you're more comfortable with, I don't care."

Still fidgeting harmlessly with the deck, Shini tilted his head playfully. "What do you want to bet with?"

"You want to make bets?" Heero lifted an eyebrow at that, though he didn't know if it was because he was skeptical. "Not with money," he ruled out automatically, with a hint of that tiny, habitual scowl peeking through—what would he do with a fistful of mortal currency, anyway? He would only be staying a short while, and he doubted he'd be taking anything with him from his stay on Earth, anyway.

"Of course not, _Tei_—Heero," the Angel of Death agreed, his forked tail winding behind him rhythmically, in time with the flipping of the corners of the cards. "But what is a game of poker without the chips? Without competition of the gamble?"

The Japanese man leaned forward to rest his elbow on the tabletop and cradle the side of his face in his palm as well, snorting to himself in agreement. "Not much, I suppose," he said, glancing up at the Angel of Death sitting opposite him with the tiniest hint of humor shining through and watched that small spark grow contagious and make the deity unleash his own little smile, still effortlessly moving the cards back and forth between his fingers, forever shuffling. With his other hand, Heero drummed his short fingernails on the table. "Well, if you really wanted to wager, we'd have to find chips, or something to replace them."

The Shinigami lit up like a circuit. "Candy?" he queried hopefully, lifting his posture expectantly as well.

Heero shrugged, lifting his chin from his palm and folding his arms casually on the table, with a shake of his head and the thick, chocolate brown hair with hints of caramel highlights that covered it. "Sorry," he offered plainly. "Not in stock. I don't buy sweet stuff."

"Oh," came the mewling, disappointed reply. Rapping the deck of cards twice on the table to even out the edges of the deck, it only took a few seconds for another idea to go scampering through Shini's mind, subsequently spinning the hamster wheel until a light bulb glowed brightly. It was really sort of interesting to watch, because Heero could almost see the tiny mouse crawl in and the wheel starting to turn across his inhuman face, something that seemed very characteristically human.

"How about marbles?"

"Never had any."

"Coins?"

"Only my mother's collection."

That caused the idea machine to temporarily stutter. Shini's lip twisted to the side in thought, squinting at his arranged husband as if he could just make out something written on his face. "Well—it does not have to be objects, _ne_, _Tei_—Heero? Perhaps the wagers could be of some other material?"

"Like what?" Heero asked flatly, still just hoping to commence the game. Honestly, it didn't matter to him what the game was played with, what he risked in the poker pot to lose to the Shinigami, he just wanted the game to actually get played instead of just watching the cards dance in their never-ending shuffle back and forth from either hand as Shini deliberated. At this point, he was open to any suggestion that would get the cards dealt and the game on with, so when the deity suggested that they wager in kisses, the thought remained in his mind for a second longer than under normal circumstances before his mouth opened to correspond.

"No," was the assumable response.

The idea machine had taken a small setback, and it showed in his defeated, sheepish grin as he continued to constantly move his fingers around the deck of cards in his eagerness to start playing. A few seconds later he had come up with another idea, and the mischievous tint to his smile, which was what was making Heero suspicious of him in the first place, faded a little. Not that that was wholly comforting, though.

"How about he will bet on how many minutes you must spend with him until he leaves, and you will bet on how many minutes you can spend alone? That way we both will have what we want, and there will be much competition to make a good game. It's a good idea, _ne_?" the Angel of Death suggested brightly, as his tail started to make another sweeping, coiling motion of delight behind him, running over the wooden spokes of the back of the chair. The sound of the clock hanging on the wall with it's dutiful _tick-tock _grew louder as Heero sat across the table, deliberating with his mouth closed and glimpses of that tiny frown in his face as he thought it over. Eventually, he was worn down by something, either just his own nonchalance or the rapt awaiting expression on Shini's face, and just shrugged.

"Alright," he conceded casually, leaning back in his seat again, relaxing. "Just as long as you don't cheat just because you're a god, and I'm not."

"_Hai_," he answered, starting the game. The pot was automatically set at twenty minutes, and each of their funds unlimited, the deity settled first of all, in a very professional cadence that suggested he'd participated in quite a few more games than Heero had originally thought. He set up the rules out loud, and it fed a little curiosity growing inside of the mortal. He had mentioned that he had been taught in a saloon to play the game poker, and that he had been raised by a ranch hand, but those were just little hints to a bigger picture, one that had inexplicably started to get very interesting. It was just hitting him now just how much the Shinigami had seen in his long existence, while he himself had only been living for twenty-five years.

Shini's smile stretched eagerly and he started dealing out the first hand, issuing a pair of anonymous cards to the mortal man currently his legal husband and one to himself. He dished out the house cards into an effortless formation and then went to pick up his own hand, brushing his fingertips lightly over them, lifting up the edges professionally just enough to see the denominations and colors of his own, and pressing them back to the table with that same half-mischievous, glowing smile. Simultaneously, Heero was doing the same with his, and frowning internally at his unsuited six and three cards. Otherwise, nothing of his useless hand translated through to his face. He hated to fold before the flop and automatically give the victory to the Shinigami, and automatically earning twenty mandatory minutes with the child-minded deity, but it left him little choice.

Acting as dealer as well, the Shinigami sat smiling at Heero as he awaited his action. The mortal man sighed as he had to throw his pair of cards back into the center of the table and forfeit, therefore earning himself twenty unadulterated minutes of entertaining Shini. And he knew it too, because he couldn't hold back the grin when the six and three flopped to the table before him.

"That's too bad, _Heero_," the winged card dealer cooed playfully, "but that makes you the short-stack." He flashed his hand, an equally bad pair of cards below 10, or even 8 or 9, and it fed that victorious smirk. He happily raked in the cards to reshuffle them while mentally tallying his score in his mind.

Shini, one. Heero, zero.

* * *

"_Nadie_!"

The classically curled blonde hair of the secretary could be seen moving about through the crowd in the lavishly decorated lobby, head and shoulders, almost literally, above the rest of the assorted beings' heads. Like a glowing, fair beacon of sleek grooming amongst the more-often-than-not untidy haircuts of the many spirits and imps that passed through the foyer of the Venus Bureau each work day in the realm of Valentine. The elegantly tall apparition herself had been modeled after a beautiful Hellenic woman, one that had caught the attention of the Goddess of Love many, many years ago. The crisp echoing of her pristine glass heels was prominent even among the chattering of sirens in the corner, among the semi-casual business-talk of the group of suit-and-tie goblins in the middle of the walkway. She nodded congenially to each group as she passed and made eye contact, still clutching the manilla folder to her corseted breast on her resolve journey through the milling droves of beings to the marble wall on the other side.

The same, faint, half-strangled voice called out after her demandingly, imploring her while trying to seem sincere. The sickness echoing in it did nothing to hide that fact. Her eyes rolled gently and she let out a mild skeptical snort as she neared the flamboyant pink speaker sitting innocently on her polished, crème-white secretary desk.

"_Nadie_!" it called, her boss's voice crackling through. Feigning a desperate, simpering cough for sympathy, the one known as Aphrodite, or Miss Iria, asked almost pathetically, "_Darling, are you there? Come on, now—_"

The secretary neatly set down her files on the clean, immaculately organized desk surface before pulling the chair up behind her and sitting down gracefully, flattening out her skirt before she crossed her legs like any proper lady apparition. Her hair was primped, and her white suit-dress had been pressed that very morning. She'd had a small breakfast of toasted English muffin-style ambrosia on her way into work, but her teeth were sparkling white. Of course, she may have seemed like a very clean and proper woman, but few had seen that such qualities were mandatory if one wanted to be Aphrodite's secretary, and she would throw pink slips at anyone who dared be slobbish or ungroomed anywhere near her office. The voice continued to implore for attention, and a "_shit-load of chasers_" or "_at least one freakin' shot of vodka or something, come on, people—have a heart_" for a few more minutes while Nadette straightened up her work area and herself. She patted down a stray curl of blonde hair back into its appropriate place and stared at her reflection complacently as the voice grew more and more impatient, drawing out the agony for the Goddess of Love on the other end of the speaker.

"_Nadie, please, honey, just bring your darling a little aspirin, for Heaven's sake_—_She's wasting away, here_!"

She rarely acted with such insolence—hell, she barely had the nerve to not pick up the phone and start a blithering apology for being so insensitive in the face of her supervisor's suffering, and most likely would have dived after the phone immediately as she arrived in normal circumstances, but an eternity of drunken nights had caught up with her. No, she hadn't appreciated three vomit stains on her white dress, and the process of dragging her passed-out boss back to her own bedroom hadn't been the most pleasant, either. The incidents, separately, were nothing to start a revolution over, but collectively, they were beginning to wear on even the sweetest and most timid of apparitions, like Nadette.

It wasn't her fault that Iria's brash personality had rubbed off on her, now, was it? She only had herself to blame for drinking herself sick the night before and earning at least a five-minute cold-shoulder from her only aid. The secretary after she believed that Miss Iria had learned enough of a lesson for that morning, put her pen down on the accounts she'd been balancing, finally settled back into the chair, picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

"Damn it, Nadie, why d'ya have to be so late this morning? I swear, if you're just sitting there listening, I'll—Oh, hello, darling, is that you?"

"Yes, Miss Iria," the blonde apparition answered sweetly, her more normal expression filling her debutante face again. Though upset she was to drag the same woman she was speaking with home when she was smashed, she still couldn't remain angry for too long with her employer. She'd grown to be her only close friend, in a dysfunctional but enjoyable sense. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"_Hardy-har-har_," Aphrodite croaked from her chair, only a level upstairs from where the secretary's desk sat. "You know _exactly_ how I'm feeling, otherwise I'd have to fire you for just being an idiot. Shit, plain and simple. I feel like the waking dead—"

"Now, now, Miss Iria, surely a glass of water might alleviate some of that discomfort?"

"Yeah, it could," the deity groused. "But is there one of those on my desk? No! And my feet are throbbing like hell-fire, I can't even _move_."

Beneath her thin, silver-rimmed glasses, her eyes glittered in a little smile. "I'll be right up with one, Miss Iria."

"On the rocks," she groaned, almost audibly rubbing at the headache rip-roaring through her temples. "The more water, the better."

"Yes, Miss Iria—"

"Oh, and Nadie?"

"There's something else I'll need you to do for me."

"Yes?"

"Think you could clear some time in your schedule to make a teensy-weensy trip down to Tokyo, hon?"

* * *

One hour and forty minutes loomed over the shoulders of one Heero Yuy as a seemingly inevitable load, as of the current hand of poker dictated. For an amount of time he couldn't recall, they'd been playing a game of very close and many split-pots and that mischievous smirking poker face had found that the mortal's sense of competition often took on the form of a neglected, starving dog on a chain, and he had come strolling around it's neck of town with bacon in his pocket at just the right moment. The Shinigami had won approximately twice the hands Heero had, and that meant every valiant he made to win a hand and shorten his sentence' had simply been overtaken by the strange prowess the deity showed with the mortal game of poker. He was lucky, and he knew what to do, and Heero was currently awaiting the flop, a neutral face to hide his increasing anxiety for a comeback chance. A chance he felt was getting further and further with each pocket queens, each suited face card, each pot that found its way to the Shinigami side of the table. A chance that seemed to be getting lost somewhere between the deck and his hand while the warm, glowing light of the kitchen around them grew more and more hazy, like a very enjoyable dream.

While stoically debating over his pair of cards, Heero kept his eyes on his cards and his ears wandered across the tabletop to listen for any needed tip-offs that might help him with a hand. Not that he hadn't gotten a very respectable share of the winning hands—Shini had played his better. If he had been mortal, it wouldn't have been as such a frustrating thought as knowing he wasn't and he had no idea what a car or a shower was, and he was still winning against him. As he listened, nothing came to him and just as he was going to make his decision, Shini stopped debating over his own hand and turned the flop over, deciding not to fold.

Shini's hair had long dried out completely, leaving it with a distinctly ordinary shine and a few unbrushed tangles at the nape of his neck. He sat, still dressed in that paint-splattered tank top with that ever-present smirk, with his knees pulled up onto the chair to keep his feet off the cold floor while he flipped the house cards over, as he'd done for the countless time that night.

Heero was so busy trying to regain something of a plan of attack, if he wanted to win back some time from his sentence to spend with the troublesome Shinigami, that he hadn't noticed the sky darkening in the kitchen windows, the lights in the kitchen seemingly growing brighter and brighter and his tea growing staler and staler. He squinted down at his cards unhappily, like a bad report card, then at Shini's face before speaking up. He tossed his cards in resignedly and leaned back in his chair. "Forget it. I've lost, and I'm getting really tired of trying to avoid it anymore," the mortal conceded flatly, and the smirk on Shini's face faded a little.

The deity leaned forward on his elbows, flicking Heero's cards back towards him with a hand. "Oh, come on, _Tei_—Heero!" he said smugly, leaning up on one elbow to flash his pair enticingly. "You're not losing to him too badly, at least. Don't throw in the towel just yet, _partn'r_. The dancing girls haven't gone on yet. You're going to miss the best part if you go now."

He was not amused. "What do you want? You've already gotten an hour and forty minutes of attention for yourself. Just stop," he groaned lowly, already shifting in his chair to find some more tea to soothe him. Before he stood up, he squinted in confusion at the darkening screen of black that was the window like it should still be dimly grey and blue of afternoon. "How long have we been playing, anyway?"

"What does it matter?" Shini purred playfully in response, lifting an eyebrow as he casually knocked on the table. "He's having enjoyment out of this. He thought you were too. Let the good times roll, like you mortals say." His lids drooped in an almost dreamy, ethereal way, beckoning him back to the timeless comfort of getting wrapped up in the game. That feeling had definitely not been there before, Heero's mind was telling him dimly in the back, behind the competitiveness spurred by his losing streak that was clouding the front of it. The light had never turned a golden, glowing peach color on the lines of the deity's young face, never pooled in his violet eyes like a melting jewel, never made the contrast of the color of his grinning teeth and his grinning lips blur together like a pastel portrait.

Heero opened his mouth to speak once, shut it, and opened it again as the coherent thought finally pulled into the station. "You're doing it again, aren't you?" he said suspiciously, craning his eyes around to see that his kitchen was, indeed, glowing in the same manner of the Shinigami—the whole room seemed like a figment of a wistful dream, and he knew he wasn't drunk. He narrowed his eyes at Shini. "You're doing that thing again. What you did in that shed in America to fool me. Stop it."

"What?" Shini piped in one last attempt to preserve the act of innocence, though he could tell that the illusion wouldn't slip under the mortal's nose. He sighed defeatedly and pulled an arm around his knees and put his chin against the top of them in a little pout. "That's no fun. _You're_ no fun," he grumbled, though there was still a little humor in his voice from the one upturned corner of his mouth.

The dreamy world disappeared, a sheer curtain cut with surgical scissors that fell away from the air almost like a solid object, leaving his vision crisper, clearer, and definitely reality. The Shinigami smirked even though he knew he'd been caught using his born ability to impose illusions and made a sudden puppy-face as Heero stood up, realizing that he'd really neglected his daily tasks while somehow intoxicated by the Shinigami's influence. That must have been the reason he hadn't noticed the time fly, though he couldn't remember his sight going fuzzy at anytime before.

"One more hand, please. He swears he'll remain behaved if you do," he begged with that effervescent smile, his tail beseeching alongside him.

"You supposed to, regardless of whether you play or not," Heero reminded him curtly, starting to walk past the table toward the chores unattended. As soon as the game had been pushed out of his agenda, his sense of routine had come back to reclaim it's spot in his mind. "You've earned your attention-time, but I've got things to go take care, so you can go do whatever for a while. Just try and not mess anything up, alright?"

Before he could even pass by, that beseeching forked tail curled itself around a tiny bit of fabric on the mortal's pant leg and tugged hopefully, leaving the Shinigami's hands free to clap together in a begging gesture, palm flat against palm. He even bowed his head slightly, still puppy-eyed, and it reminded Heero again to think just how many deities he'd ever seen willing to plead anything from a mortal. No, every godly campaign to obtain something from man he remembered seemed to be largely by force, followed only by deceit and trickery. The image of Zeus and Io conjured itself from his dim memory of the short time spent on that particular story in his high school mythology class, and that picture of the mortal woman turned white cow awkwardly trying to speak her name and only coming out with, "Moo," frightened him in a vague sense. Shini didn't have that ability, he assumed, but he was still a god, wasn't he? They could be just as unpredictable as any mortal.

"Come on, Heero, just one more hand—" He tugged once again on his pant leg to convince him, then absently started balling the excess fabric pooled around his knees into his fist as he looked expectantly into his face, all the while trying to sway him with his eyes. "What harm does it do? One last hand, to decide it all."

"Decide it all?" Heero asked discerningly, though still making that slight frown face.

"Yeah," the deity grinned. He seemed to enjoy the thought of the final bet, winner-take-all, probably because he had a very good chance of beating Heero to it. "He'll bet all of the time he's won and you can have the chance to steal it away from him. Sounds good, right? Just one last hand, _Tei_—Heero, then he swears you may finish your tasks, whatever they may be."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Oh, come on! Is there a reason why not?"

"You'll win, I know it. You wouldn't have suggested the idea if you didn't know you could win, therefore doubling your earnings, and therefore, giving me even less time to do those tasks. I'd rather decline," was Heero's reasoning, but it didn't cut it in the Shinigami's eyes, not at all. He promptly went back to campaigning with his time-proven twin tactics of guilt-eyes and pure persistence. Hell, if he had the determination to win over someone as characteristically narcissistic as Aphrodite, then mortals were like dominos in comparison.

Heero had, in the short time that felt like an eternity since he'd first seen that divine body come crashing through the ceiling of an old, haunted tuberculosis colony, grown to predict these kinds of cycles. The cycle of Shinigami begging with him, asking him, pleading him sometimes even, to do something for and/or with him which normally Heero wouldn't have considered or just immediately refused, and using those eyes against him. First, by filling them with tears, and filling him up with a false sense of guilt—guilt that had had nothing to do with his own actions besides running in fear, which was acceptable, considering. And again using those violet eyes, by tempting him into traps to touch him, kiss him, even just tease him with that puppy-dog expression. So when Shini again asked and flaunted his weapon, blinking innocently, Heero knew better now to just give up and sit back down at the table, exhaling in a little sigh.

"Fine," he said, slumping back against his chair slightly to await the pair of cards Shini would deal to him. "The last one," he admonished sternly solely with his eyes, making sure that the deity noticed it. He was excitedly smirking as the cards shuffled showily between his hands and his wings fluffed happily, like a pigeon just spotting a splash of popcorn spilled out onto the street from his concrete perch.

"Last one, he promises you," Shini parroted contentedly back. "Double or nothing, alright?"

Heero snorted. "Why not," he grumbled to himself, closing his eyes and running his fingers once through his bangs to ruffle his hair in a semi-satisfying way. The sound of the cards being dealt silently, professionally from someone with such a mischievous smirk was heard over the mortal sighing and the deity's tail excitedly curdling the air with its constant swish back and forth, back and forth. The lights didn't grow fuzzy again, though the sky kept deepening and deepening into the late hours of night. The passage of time was not distorted by the Shinigami's ability to impose illusions, image fantasies, this time, and Heero realized just how much time he'd spent there. His right foot was starting to prickle with numbness as he received his hand.

Shini smugly glimpsed at his own, displaying that identical smirk that he'd worn each hand, and pressed them back to the table, assuring that no one else would see them. He waited for Heero's decision, and simply smirked at the mortal's face, knowing he had little chance of trumping his pocket queens with the luck he'd been having that evening. Heero was talented, that was certain, but not enough to cover the deficit created by the sheer amount of bad hand's he'd gotten.

But apparently, all that luck had been reserving itself like a tactical calvary, because Heero shifted forward into his seat in a little surprise to see that he held a king and queen side by side in his hand. It wasn't much of a tell, but it was enough for Shini. It was equivalent to a gasp and an exclamation of success, and the deity's face dropped a little. He really hadn't counted on the possibility of Heero actually getting a good hand this last round, this last crucial round, and the danger of losing that mandatory face time. Not that it would be the end of the world, but Shini wanted it nonetheless.

The game of poker continued with an outwardly appearance of calmness. The flop was turned, however, and that underlying current of emotion tied to the cards was enhanced. Heero actually had to smile, despite his better poker instincts, and stare at the one-eyed jack and nine that sat there, awaiting him, cushioned by a two of hearts. The river only needed to be a ten, and he'd have a winning hand to trump whatever two-of-a-kind or full house the Shinigami would try and throw his way. And then he could be left alone.

That thrilled him very much. Very much so. He smiled unabashedly, showing his teeth in smug victory. He was just about to mockingly ask the Shinigami what a king and queen and jack and ten and nine would make when said deity finally couldn't hold back the reddened expression and puffed-out cheeks of frustration and reached up and grabbed Heero's cards and threw them to the table.

He promptly shoved all the cards into a messy pile, exclaiming hurriedly, "Oh, whoops! How that mortal time flies here, he forgets! Too bad we cannot finish and see who wins! He's got to go, um—preen himself again. Bye!" Already a shade of embarrassed, defeated red, the Shinigami bolted up out of his chair and turned to scurry out of the kitchen under the guise of going to fix his feathers again, disappearing in his usual fashion only a few steps out of the chair. Heero, who was still a little taken aback, finally just groaned frustratedly and started shuffling the cards back together.

* * *

AN: Man, I gotta stop doing that! This is the--what, eighth? time that I've planned on covering a certain amount in a chapter and I end up going past that limit and spilling into the next chapter. Not that I really mind to have more chapters, but I wish I could plan a little better, ai-yah. Well, anyway, hopefully the next chapter _will_ come sooner than this one, and I wholly apologize for the wait. I do have a lot of work to finish on the One-Eared Neko, but I'm not abandoning Shini, so don't worry. Thank you, and... um, have a good day?


	18. When the Moon Hits Your Eye

Chapter 18

"When the Moon Hits Your Eye"

The outskirts of Tokyo's suburbs had grown dark by the time Heero had collected up the deck of cards, put them back where they had sat for years, unused, and stopped for a second, unnaturally worried by that thought. He vaguely wondered if they would again sit there, untouched, in a quiet house, gathering dust while he simply grew older with the ghosts and the spiders. But he didn't take the time to think about it—he busied himself before he could realize something he would regret and as he walked out of the kitchen he lost himself in the act of taking the hamper beside the laundry door and chucking in a load and pulling another from the dryer and depositing it in a basket to be folded later. That occupied him for a few minutes, but after that, once he'd stuffed the last of the dry clothing into that basket and nudged it to the side of the dryer with his foot, he was reminded of what he was trying to bury in the back of his mind when he heard a loud thud somewhere above him in the house. He gave his usual sigh and walked back out of the laundry room, shut the door, and stood there, squinting suspiciously up at the ceiling. The sound didn't come again.

With the Shinigami, that was probably more troubling than anything. So the mortal turned and started up the stairs to the second level, his ears peeled for sounds that the Angel of Death staying temporarily in his house had dropped another framed picture or vase or something most likely breakable. As he walked cautiously up the stairs, awaiting another harrowing-sounding crash, he still heard nothing. Even when he stood at the lip of the second story hallway, nothing came and he could only see moonlight stealing its way into the house through the window at the end of the hall. Heero's face twisted up slightly. He saw nothing to prove that the Shinigami had been there, even when he knew he had heard him up there—none of the doors to the rooms were open and the deity was no where to be seen. Heero turned his head to gaze back down the stairs and still came up barehanded.

Still nothing to reassure him there. As reluctant as he was to harbor the troublesome deity in his home, he wasn't about to lose him either—there would be a literal hell to pay to Iria if he "lost" her son. He started trekking down the hallway, opening doors and flipping on the lights only to peer into an open room. After he'd inspected the bathroom and his bedroom, closest to the stairway, he stepped back and made a slight face down the hallway.

"Shinigami?" he called out. He turned his blue eyes toward the end of the hall, drawn by the moonlight spilling in from the window—a window that was only halfway closed. A window that he was sure, before he'd left his house for a trip to America that he had no idea would shake up his perceptions of reality or gods, he had shut tightly. There was no way it'd just opened itself for some fresh air, so he walked down the hall towards it. The cool outside air, littered with sounds of cars passing, faint voices from the streets and houses around him, and a general buzzing of night, leaked in and Heero lifted his hands to shut it. But before he could, he was struck with a thought and in his mind opened up a memory, unbidden.

His father hadn't always been away on business, tinkering with his motorcycle, or busied with some other venture that left a young Heero to his own devices to entertain himself. In fact, he'd often taken time off to spend time with him when he was a little younger, though that habit lessened over the years, and one of the things he'd passed on to his son was the passion of young American boys to climb trees and whatever else stood to be conquered. So he'd taught him something, beneath his mother's "radar", if you will. Just outside the Yuy household, there was a tree that had escaped the leveling of the Tokyo sprawl and had grown up along the side of the house, so close that it had started splaying almost artistically out to the sides where it grew close to the window. From the window at the end of the hallway, Odin had told his son, you could crawl out on a sturdy branch, put one's foot on the top of the window, lift the other foot to another branch, and, in relative safety, step out onto the gradual slope of the roof. And, he'd told a young and curious Heero, if he was quiet, he'd be able to sneak out without his mother knowing he was doing anything but watching cartoons in his room and have the freedom to do whatever he wanted.

After a few excursions out onto the roof, Heero'd already devised ways to keep himself entertained with his newfound hiding place. He'd taken a tin from his room that had once held his tiny toy cars, filled with a handful or two of candy and snacks he'd sneak out from the pantry, tied a string to it, and hidden it in the hollowed trunk of the tree he used to climb onto the roof. Therefore, whenever he was hungry for a between-meals snack, and he couldn't get by his mother, he'd simply sneak out the window, pull the string, and drag the box of sweets out of hiding. He'd also put pictures, notes, and some of his toys in the box and taken them out when playing on the roof. He had a pillow (an old one that no one really would miss if it happened to disappear one day) that he'd take out with him and sometimes take a nap in the summer on the warm shingles. He'd also planned to use that tree as his escape route for when he got grounded when he was older, but it never came. After a year and a half or so, the secret had gotten out and his mother had barred Heero from climbing on his roof. The habit died completely when his parents did as well.

It seemed a little strange to be back there, staring out the window at the arms of the tree now. He'd thought of it, sure, once in a while, but he'd never climbed it again. And for some reason, he suspected that was where the Shinigami had disappeared. So, with a wash of nostalgia, he opened the window and stuck his head outside. He listened again for another noise, but didn't hear one. But he began to climb out onto the branch anyway. The old rhythm of it came back effortlessly, and with longer legs and a stronger body, it was a much easier and a much smoother journey up onto the roof. Heero practically glided up the branches and onto the roof without a sound. He'd forgotten his shoes, but he forgot about that quickly when he spotted the Shinigami and the Shinigami spotted him.

The God of Death sat where the roof came to a mild peak, his back turned toward the young Japanese man, and he turned away from gazing over the glittering metropolis lights in the distance to look over his shoulder at him. In the shine of the moon, his freshly preened feathers glistened as black as death, and his face glowed impishly as he smiled, spotting him just as his head appeared over the edge of the roof. "Care to join him?"

His whip-like black tail curled up to pat the roof beside him, and his wings fluttered happily, curled around his shoulders.

"I have neighbors, you know," Heero said, pushing away from the tree branch and stepping carefully on the shingles. They'd been unattended for some years and the last thing he needed now was to fall off his own house and get himself killed, with an Angel of Death sitting on his roof. "Let's go back in before they see you up here. Come on, Shini."

The God of Death kept his voice low, almost as if not to disturb the beauty of the scene he could see from atop his _Teishu_'s home. "No, they're sleeping—come on, Heero! Just for a little while? He's not going to make trouble, he swears. What can it hurt to sit here for a little while longer?"

He turned his head back, once again losing himself in the beauty of a modern city at night, admiring the countless glowing lights of buildings off in the distance, staining the sky a faint, animate pink, and the sleepy yellow squares of lit windows in the surrounding houses. As he stared, an uncharacteristic solemn tone entered his voice. "There's no telling how long he will stay in limbo if he should go back. And it is not beautiful there, no. You mortalsdo not always realize how fortune smiles on you, even if you do not last long." But that pitch made itself scarce in a grinning smile when the Shinigami turned back to see that Heero had actually sat down beside him and his tail teased at the air happily.

The mortal man folded his arms as he sat down on the small peak in the roof and rested his elbows on his knees. He sighed quietly and offered, while hoping that the wind wouldn't get any colder, "I guess it'll be fine."

Shini smile's glowed a little brighter at the side of his face.

"After all," he shrugged, "I haven't been up here in years. I might have forgotten completely about this place if you hadn't reminded me of it." And after a moment of scanning the sublime beauty of distant city lights in the night, he let out another deep breath and let his chin rest on his crossed arms, the mild breeze whistling over the tops of the Tokyo suburb tousling his already mussed dark brown hair. The Shinigami could feel the cold air, but kept his warm, deathly black wings against his shoulders and kept warm, like a chickadee ruffling his feathers free of snow in winter. They both watched the glitter and bustling grandeur of the Tokyo lights from a far, closer to the homely glow of a bedroom window than to the neon brilliancy that beckoned. For a while, it was quiet, until the Shinigami glanced over to his blue-eyed husband and out of habit, he turned as well, analyzing the expression on his face for any opportunities for mischief growing there. Shini's eyes brightened suddenly, glowing happily as an idea took him.

"He just remembered something. You want to see a trick, Heero?" For some reason, the hushed, excited way he said made him actually spark an interest in it, and he nodded. The God of Death's face was practically split in half by the smile that bloomed there and he quickly shuffled closer to the mortal, almost startling him to slip off the peak of the roof, lifting his hands up eagerly so that Heero could see them. And at first, he simply frowned, seeing as there was nothing in them and the Shinigami was pressing his luck in pressing against his side, his head nearly resting on his shoulder and his feathers brushing accidentally against his back. He turned his head doubtfully, analyzing the expression on the deity's face, and watched as the smile grew.

"He taught himself this one," he boasted happily, nudging Heero's shoulder with his own to pay attention. "There is not much fun to be had in limbo, so he learned to make some of his own. He saw it from one of his brothers from when he still lived in Hell, but that was when he was very small and that was very long ago." His hands still hovered, palms up and slightly cupped, empty as the air they held. A second later, he bit at a corner of his tongue and made a face while nothing happened immediately.

"You didn't forget it, did you?" Heero asked flatly, looking skeptical by moonlight.

An instant after the words had left his mouth, there came the faint sound like water at the bottom of an empty glass being slurped up through a straw, but sounding more like it was distant, hidden within a cardboard box somewhere he couldn't see. It came from no place in particular; it instead seemed to just exist. And between the Shinigami's palms a ring of crystalline white light also just suddenly appeared and as it brightened sharply, the center darkened to a jet black orb, roughly the size of a pool ball and ringed with brilliant light. Heero recognized it, yes—he'd been attacked by a monster of the same element before, after all.

Shini twisted his head, lifting an eyebrow smugly. "No way," he said, smirking.

Heero stared at the bundle of pure Darkness for a minute. Darkness, he guessed, was just the absence of light. And born a Shinigami, although a strange one, he'd been given command over it. So, did that mean there was also an absence of light in Shini? Otherwise it seemed that it would be impossible to ply such a characteristically untouchable thing as the night itself, but it seemed just as impossible. He couldn't accept the idea that the mischievous spark in the deity's eyes, the gleam in his smile that was seemed more human than it was, was an illusion of darkness. That thought somehow did not feel the best to mull over in his mind, like an unwanted taste in his mouth that he couldn't wash out.

While he dazed slightly over that thought and allowed the Shinigami to lean against him without a protest, the black-winged deity glanced up to his face with a beaming expression of pride, nearly the same as when he'd presented his piece of crayon artwork.

"See? Bite of cake," he boasted again, chuckling proudly and not noticing his mis-worded saying. "It's really an easy trick to learn. Heero. Even the runt of the litter, like himself, learned it without any trouble at all. What about you? He thinks you could do it, too, with a little help." As he finished, nudging still at the side he leaned against, and Heero vaguely returned to his normal mind, with the Shinigami resting his chin cozily on his shoulder, he watched the mortal's face carefully. He waited for a response, but Heero just blinked back and stared at the quietly fascinating globe of black.

"_Ne, Teishu_?"

"No, I really don't think I could—I mean, I'm not a Divine, or anything," Heero said, his eyes plastered keenly on the tiny condensed shadow as it shifted in to the Shinigami's left hand, leaving his right to free to snake its way surreptitiously around his back and around his shoulder, focusing the God of Death's heat on his back in a manner that was not unpleasant. The ring of light around it flickered as he moved his hand, as the darkness was sucked from the very air, leaving only the pure light behind. If the day and the night were marriages of the two pure forms, then the Shinigami now held both undiluted light and shadow in the palm of his hand. But he was a higher being, and Heero was mortal. He had scraped his knee on the sidewalk as a kid and he had bled red, mortal blood, not some finer blue type of Gods—he doubted what Shini had told him. He shook his head again and the moon smiled down on his tousled brown hair. As he looked at the deity, even his hair seemed to shine more radiantly than his and he doubted it more.

"No," he said again, shaking his head. "It's alright. I don't think I could even if you did help—"

Shini chuckled while he wrapped his arm around Heero's back so that he could take up his other hand by the wrist and guide it like a marionette, smiling on his shoulder up at him. "Why do you automatically think you can't, Heero? You'd be surprised what would happen if you only tried. And you are a very stunning mortal, so it should not be very hard for you," he whispered comfortingly, his tail drumming out a lazy rhythm as he released the little black orb to disappear silently and seep back into the night from his other hand, so that he could take the mortal's other hand as well. "_Dekimasu_."

Beneath him, Heero didn't respond with his reflexive tenseness, though he thought about the Shinigami being so close, and let the deity do as he would in a moment of calm curiosity. The freshly washed hair of the Shinigami rolled over his shoulder as he repositioned himself better to guide Heero's hands, his long ear tails brushing against his neck. He fluttered his wings a bit to keep his balance and he leaned forward, moving the mortal's hands in his own so that they took the same position that his had. "Now," Shini whispered eagerly, "it's simple."

"_Aa_?"

"He will help you, but you can do the trick yourself." Already, there was a strange sensation passing from the palm of the Shinigami's hands into the back of his own, like a warm, not unpleasant absence of weight, like they were liquid with the air. And into it, he could feel tiny, faint veins of cold traveling from his arms down to the tips of his fingers, as if filling them with ice cubes. Shini bit at the tip of his tongue in concentration, as he carefully moved his hands from Heero's and then held his wrists. "This may sound a little strange, but trust him, it will work. Picture your favorite food in your head, _Teishu_, and make believe you're holding it in your hand. It will work, he promises."

The mortal did twist his head to give the deity a look that said exactly that, that it was very strange, but Shini's bright violet eyes were confident in him and he smirked. "Do not look at him—concentrate!" he hastened with a laugh, his tail curling up to nudge Heero's head back around by the cheek, forcing him to focus again on his empty upturned palms, a hazy blue tone in the illumination of night. Shini nudged in closer, watching intently as Heero sighed, but complied with the odd command and in his mind groped around for a suitable subject. His more familiar frown returned when he came back from his search empty handed—he'd never really thought what his favorite thing to eat was, but he settled on ice cream sundaes and as soon as he had seen that image, he felt the cold in his finger tips suddenly spread across his palm, like he held the actual cold bowl in his hands. He heard Shini's rumbling near his ear in a pleased noise and he opened his eyes.

Hovering between his palms was a small orb of Darkness, ringed in Light.

The Shinigami smiled and let his headrest on his shoulder without invitation but also without rebuttal. "Not bad for a mortal," he grinned softly, carefully letting go of his arranged husband's wrists. The light around the supernatural creation flickered slightly as Shini parted and withdrew his Deathly influence, but soon settled and Heero sat, holding a bit of the night itself in his hand. He opened his mouth but not a word would dare slip out and he wouldn't tear his eyes off it, fearing it might dissipate if he should do anything but concentrate fully on it. And without the touch of the Shinigami's skin, the chilled, watery sensation in his hands turned into a mild thrumming of foreign energy, energy that no mortal could tap without a Divine hand first and coursed through his blood illegally.

Suprisingly, Darkness felt rather warm and enjoyable.

"You are a most uncommon kind of mortal, Heero," Shini said with a sigh of admiration, his one arm resting his weight against the roof while the other stole its way over the other man's shoulders. "You have kept the trick continuing longer than any other that he has seen, you know. Usually," he whispered, "he has only to take away his hands and it will disappear in a few moments. Are you sure you have not done this before?"

Heero remained stone still, his blue eyes honed in solely on the tiny orb he maintained. The Angel of Death chuckled in his ear again, leaning into his side again to give him a hint of advice.

"You don't need to worry so hard, Heero—it will be there if you want it to be."

Baited on the sight hovering between his palm, emitting a ring of transfixing white light. "But if I don't concentrate, won't it disappear?"

The Shinigami reached back up and gently closed the mortal's left palm, causing the ball of Darkness to constrict itself, at the whim of its wielder's hand, into such a tiny condensed orb that the white light surrounding it flared like a miniature star, burning in his hands. It became a single glaring light, as bright as any flame and as just as cold as the night air around it. Entranced by the idea that he had a bit of the heavens in his palm, Heero opened his hand a little, experimentally, and the star grew a little larger but the intensity waned as well. And Shini, who escaped physical rebuttal because of his husband's fascination, put both his hands on his shoulder and rested his head there. He let out a peaceful sigh and said, "See, it was easy enough, no?"

Still drawn to the light in his palm like a moth to the flame, Heero chuckled, not parting his eyes from it. "I suppose," he said with a smile.

"See? Shini knows _some_ things. Not many of your mortal things, but he knows others that mortals do not. He is Shinigami, after all," he murmured dreamily. As he spoke, his demonic tail wound lazily in circles and he slowly began closing his eyes as he kept his head comfortably on the mortal's shoulder. And by the time they had closed fully, his soot black wings fluttered lightly and relaxed, brushing at the roof shingles and still gleaming in the moonlight.

Heero finally managed to pull his gaze off the miniature, tamed star and glanced over to see that the God of Death had indeed dozed off while leaning against him, but he did not move to shake him off as he might have done as an automatic response. His hand relaxed as he ran his eyes over the face of the sleeping deity and the Darkness crept back into its rightful place, saturating the night, and the light diffused with it. That left them back in the glow of the moon and alone with the faint warmth of the city radiating and the nearby lit windows. Heero now could realize that the Shinigami had slumped against him and drifted off lazily and that he could feel his chest rising and falling against his back. His bushy chestnut bangs scattered over his closed eyes in a way that seemed perfectly normal and even the way his mouth was slightly agape as he slept made the fact he was a Divine even harder to believe. The wings and the distinctive demonic tail were definitely give-aways, but without them, he would seem to be a relatively average human being. His features were not overly lavish except for his striking eyes; he looked more like tired teenager than age-old harbinger of death.

That made him wonder again how the hell he'd ended up here in an outrageous situation of chance—how it'd come to pass that he should take in the most troublesome Angel of Death in all of Hell into his home and now be sitting on his roof, watching the moon, with said god dozing on his shoulder. And why should it be him? How had he seemed so extraordinary, so unique out of all the mortal men and women of time past that they would pick him to marry to the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami? As his mind wandered, his physical body did as well and he found himself coming out of that daze with his hand brushing away the long trails of hair that hung around the sleeping Divine's face. He moved it away haltingly before he decided to clear his throat and speak up.

"Shini," he said quietly. "Come on, let's go back inside. You don't want to sleep outside, trust me."

He responded drowsily by grumbling and squinting his eyes tightly closed, burrowing closer to Heero's side like stubbornly clutching at his pillow. "Let's not, _Teishu_, hmm? So comfortable here anyway, why wake up again?"

"It's going to get cold out here, Shini. Come on, you can sleep in the guestroom, in a nice, warm bed. How about it? Come on," he urged gently, nudging with his shoulder. "You'll feel much better there, I promise."

Shini heaved a sigh in his languor and turned his head so that he could almost kiss the mortal's neck. "But you will not be in that room, will you? You'll go to your own bed and he'll be alone once again. It will be much colder then. No, he much prefers it right where he is, thank you very much."

Heero pondered for a minute, wondering how he'd settle this without ending up in argument and still find a way to get the sleepy Shinigami inside, whose stubbornness was not dulled by his slumber. And after a second of running his eyes over the dozing face resting on his shoulder, it came to him. He turned his head toward Shini while he nuzzled his face back into his shoulder, once again drifting off, and offered him, "If you come back inside with me, I'll give you a good night kiss."

"Mmmm, that sounds good," Shini hummed happily into his shoulder. "You promise him?"

"Yes, I promise."

He lifted his head and his violet eyes opened lazily over an equally relaxed smile. "Then he thinks it's about time to go inside." That grin widened happily when Heero leaned over to hold up his end of the deal, aiming initially for his cheek, and it grew impish and mischievous when he twisted his head to make their mouths meet instead. He made a slight surprised sound and was left with the distinct taste of cinnamon once again on his lips when the Shinigami drifted back, eyes blissfully closed and mouth quickly twisting back into its former grin. In a moment of mild euphoria, the God of Death almost clumsily put his hand on the side of Heero's face, half-stroking, half-twitching while the rest of him swayed sleepily.

"Mmm, that was nice, _Teishu_," he murmured. "Well—g'night." And with that, he slumped against the mortal, already being pulled down by the soft claws of sleep and being pulled straight through the roof, as well.

Shini inadvertently slipped into a state of weightlessness, the one that allowed him to pass through solid physical objects, and after falling asleep, fell straight through the roof like a sack of potatoes. Heero jumped to his feet, startled, as the roof rippled like water where he passed through. Only a second later there was a loud thud from inside the house, which could only be the Shinigami hitting the floor, and Heero had already hurried over to scale down the branches and climbing through the window at the end of the corridor. Once he had gotten a leg inside and over the windowsill, he could tell where the God of Death had fallen, and didn't bother to shut the window after him once he'd clamored through. He went to the door of the guest bedroom, which had incidentally been located beneath them as they sat on the roof, and found it open a crack. He opened it quickly on a dark room and the sight of the Shinigami snoring, unharmed and completely unaware of what had happened, on the floor just a foot from the bed. He lay on his back, his wings outstretched lazily, and one arm slung over his stomach as it gently rose with every breath.

With a soft, amused smile, Heero simply shook his head and went about the task of lifting up the Shinigami and dragging him into the bed. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, with such large black wings, but even in sleep the deity clung to him and made it a little easier to lift him. Once he had managed to drag him onto the bed, he crawled beneath the covers himself in a sleepy hurry to get warm and folded his wings against him like a pidgeon, ruffling and snuggling his face into the pillow. Heero watched as the God of Death drowsily sat back up to punch at his pillow, then flip over beneath the blankets, ruffling his feathers. He seemed to lull off to sleep almost instantly once he was settled and the whipping motion of his tail stilled beneath the sheets. Seconds later, a rhythm of light snoring could be heard and he was long gone.

Heero pulled out another blanket from underneath the bed and laid it over the Shinigami's feet before he went back to the door. He glanced once over his shoulder before he shut it and walked down the corridor, still shaking his head in amusement. It would be long before that grin would fade, after he sighed and sat down on his own bed, sensing it bow familiarly beneath his weight, after he reluctantly set his alarm for the next morning with mild dread of work looming over him, and after he'd drifted off as well. And this time, his dreams were absorbed by old, nearly forgotten memories that had needed only to be dusted off a little to be remembered.

* * *

_Dekimasu "You can."_

* * *

AN : Yes, I'm back. The Neko universe is over with, for the time being, and now I can finally get back to writing on My Shinigami, My Hamburger full time! I'm happy because this is a much lighter story and I don't have to get into a kind of depressy mood to write a poignant scene or something. I'm liking it. A little less Romeo and Juliet, a little more Midsummer's Night Dream. (Yeah, I know, I just used a Shakespeare metaphor--I can't help it. Pretty soon I'll be quoting Erasmus and Boccaccio. I apologize in advance ). The title is a line of the song "That's Amore." We're just about to dive head first into the more high-stakes part of this particular arc of MSMH. Oh, and for any one who may not have read the one author's note where I explained the title, I think I'll do it again. Sometime during sixth grade, my friends and I found this little pink paperback romance book (You know the kind, with the cheesy shirtless guy and the girl with the long flowy hair standing against a seascape background) that was called My Darling, My Hamburger. And to sixth graders, it was a pretty racy book, the kind you'd giggle about and spread rumors about the person who checked it out and middle school stuff like that. Anyway, and this may seem a little... I dunno, perverse, but the scene where the guy objectifies this girl beneath her skirt, against the wall, upstairs at a house party is kinda what made me pick the title. Ha, it does sound worse when I say out loud, but I planned on Shini being a rather impish and sometimes lascivious horndog of a character, but in a loveable way. So, that book came to mind and I patched in Shinigami for Darling. I dunno, it might have a better effect if you knew the original title beforehand. And while I'm chattering on, here's some more soundtrack.

"Trip Through Your Wires" U2

"Don't Stop Me Now" Queen

"Sympathy for the Devil" The Rolling Stones

"Around the World" Red Hot Chili Peppers


	19. The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight

Chapter 19

"The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight"

Of the momentous occasions of one's life, the most important ones always either are too frenzied or too emotional to recall clearly, or they are crystallized in your mind. You can remember where you were at the time, who you were with, even way the light fell on the ground that day;the most miniscule details become as solid as a photograph in your mind and it was no different for Heero concerning the deaths of his parents. He was surprised how long he'd actually gone without replaying those events in his head, as they were unusually sharp and particularly biting when he began to dream them that night. It'd grown to an intensity and vibrancy of his old nightmares of the nights directly following his parents'deaths. And in it, the story line had become tangled, disturbed, and suddenly more interactive-Not that that was any good thing.

Heero found himself no longer just a spectator to the hideous cinema playing out in his head. He was also standing in the middle of that military base, and one of the rowdy soldiers had spotted him with a hungry, ogling eye intent to do no good. He stopped and turned toward instead to where Heero stood in the dream, his twelve year old legs suddenly beneath him again and unwilling to move. He could not and did not escape this dream antagonist and he soon found himself thoroughly being tossed around, ridiculed physically by the man's forceful hands landing again and again on his face, and finally being discarded after the snot had been beaten out of him into a dark outbuilding. No sooner than had he hit the floor did he begin to cry, and in the dream, it was a strange, detached sensation that Heero believed was real, for lack of realization that he was still dreaming. In the dark of that utility shed he sat up with an aching body and lifted a hand to his face to access the damage with his fingertips, still shaking with the choked sobs.

He brushed his fingertips over his lip and found a thin line of blood pouring from his mouth in one tiny stream down his chin and continuing through his fingers as he tried to catch it in his hands. The feeling that his face was swollen and bruised beyond recognition faded in a growing fear as the blood did not stop; it kept pouring steadily from his mouth in a single, narrow line of crimson and then snaked down to the floor and winded toward the door. He couldn't stop himself from crying as the horrible fear grew and the blood didn't cease. His mind started to scream of death and muddled with paranoid thoughts when from the dark Death himself appeared and reached out for him. Somehow, the Shinigami had found his way into that dark shed and a hand ran along Heero's face tenderly while he sat back in a shadowed corner. With a pained moan, Heero leaned into the hand, trying to reach out and find the deity, but beneath him, the hand disappeared and he collapsed to the floor abruptly. He felt no pain, only the agony of what his mind could imagine, and soon saw nothing in the dream world, for his eyes were opening on the real one.

Sunlight was pouring gently in through his shutters, painting all in his room a soft tone his sleepy, sensitive eyes were thankful for. The horror of the dream slowly faded away as he glanced around, his mind lazy and still sluggish from sleep. He could see his desk, lined with the books of his adolescence, and the calendar hung on the wall beside it, still unmarked from the time that he had departed for America. As he blinked his eyes awake, he was suddenly aware that someone had been gently stroking his face as he lay on his side and ran their fingers soothingly through his hair. And in the silent sanctuary of his room that someone was singing a peaceful archaic melody with his rich, baritone voice rolling sumptuously over the Latin lyrics. Heero remained motionless for a moment, blue eyes open and lucid, listening to the voice that could only belong to the Shinigami. Even while he felt his hair being stroked, he remained still, listening intently. And he remained listening, inadvertently fascinated, until the song had ended.

Shini, who had long noticed the mortal's waking, simply smiled to himself as the last note sounded and he reached down from his perch on the headboard to affectionately tilt Heero's head up with a hand and grinned down at him. "G'morning, _Teishu_" he bid him. At first, he simply stared back up at the Angel of Death sitting on the edge of his headboard, and only managed to conjure up a mild wary look.

"Didn't I tell you to stay out of my bed?" Heero asked as he rolled onto his back, his throat morning-gravelly.

"No, you did not," Shini said pleasantly. "You must have forgotten." His smirk grew smugly and his thumb brushed over the mortal's face while he wore that confused frown. "And besides, he is not in your bed, now, is he? He can not get in trouble for that, then" He let out a little laugh and Heero remained still beneath his hand, his eyes growing increasingly confused as they focused on the deity's face, and the way the bright sunlight fell on it-Sunlight. That familiar sensation of dread he'd experienced many times during his stint with the Shinigami returned to him, shattering the serenity he'd woken up into.

"Shit. What time is it?" he groaned suddenly, sitting up.

The Angel of Death fluttered his wings as he drew his hand back, making an innocent face and tilting his head to the side. "Um-Morning?" he ventured with a shrug.

Heero cranked his head around to look for the clock that usually sat on the bedside table and found that the lamp had been tipped over, the shade knocked to the carpet, and all the other things scattered to the ground as well, from the Shinigami's wings, he presumed. The clock was on the ground, and the red digits declared it was a generous ten forty-five in the morning, nearly five hours past the mortal's normal waking our and most definitely late for work. Instantly, an accusing stare fell back on the God of Death, who was still crouched like a massive bird on the edge of his headboard, and he reacted with a startled innocent face.

But Heero was filled with too much dread in his stomach to care at the moment. "Shinigami, did you turn off my alarm?"

"What, you mean that strange sound?" He winced a little to himself. "Why, was it important? It was only making irritating noises, _Teishu_, and you needed your sleep, so he made it stop." He again made an innocuous face, unsure of what he'd done wrong-after all, the last time he'd been in the mortal realm was long before electricity, let alone the concept of alarm clocks. Heero realized this, but cursed anyway and ripped the blanket off him, shaking his head, grumbling something along the lines of how he was going to loose his job on the account of the troublesome god, and hurriedly snatched up some clothes. He bolted out the door, leaving the confused Shinigami to sit all alone on the headboard and wonder just what an alarm clock was on top of what prompted the strange behavior of his husband. A second later, Heero came back, his hair wetted from beneath the faucet in the tub, and a fresh shirt thrown on, taking Shini by the wrist and tugging him down from his perch.

"Damn it, I146;m not leaving _you_ alone in the house," he grumbled. "You're going to work with me, since you're the one who made me so late in the first place."

"Mnnh! No, thank you," Shini groaned. "He _hates_ work."

Before the mortal turned the other direction to rush to work, his eyes ran up and down the Shinigami, lingering over the paint-freckled tank top and the sweatpants he wore from the night before. He shrugged helplessly and decided to risk look like he was associating with an unkempt bachelor than spend any more time trying to dress him. He also had to realize, with a little irony, that neither of them was any longer bachelors at all, and his husband was none other than the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami. He huffed a sigh, the one he'd been visited by too much as of late, and said, "It'll have to do, I guess."

"_Oi_! Where's his g'morning kiss?" he protested immediately, resisting when Heero tried to pull him towards the door.

The mortal huffed another rushed sigh before turning around and quickly pressing his lips to Shini's. He pulled away while simultaneously pulling him along behind him.

The deity grinned a little, despite the fact he had to go to work, something he'd really never done for a day in his divine life, and followed him through the house, snatching up the black cloak from downstairs and pulling on an old pair of shoes as he walked quickly behind him. A g'morning kiss truly did help start the day off on the right foot. A minute after that, _Youkai's _engine roared back to life and pealed out of the driveway and onto the emptied morning streets of the quiet Tokyo suburb.

* * *

"_Ne_, _Teishu?_" Shini asked suddenly, breaking from the silence that had occupied them. 

"You know I asked you not to call me that anymore." A certain impatient tone had returned to Heero's voice and a bluntness to his speech, but he had never been overly agreeable in the morning and the fact that he was monstrously, dangerously late for work on his first day back from a vacation did not brighten his day up any more. He wore a general sullen look that morning as he glared hatefully up at the stoplight that had stopped him at the current intersection, willing it to either change immediately or else suffer a horrible death. Unfortunately, it did not work and there he sat, his tension growing as the seconds ticked by. If there were one thing that could make him completely impossible to deal with, it would be losing this job and he was pretty close to doing just that.

"He does not mean to, he is sorry," the deity answered, frightened by the harsh tone. Perhaps he'd just grown too attached to the sweeter, laid-back Heero he'd sat with on the roof the other night, but still he did not like it when he got to such a point. As he sat on the back of the motorcycle, his arms still ringed around the mortal's waist, he made a exasperated expression, pouting at the back of his husband's head.

"Yeah, I know you are," Heero muttered, his fierce blue stare still fixed on the headlight. "But all the apologies in the world doesn146;t change the fact, and it doesn't change this goddamned light to green, now does it?" His foot supporting them on the pavement tapped impatiently.

"No, he guesses it does not," he sighed in return, glancing over to the car that was waiting at the intersection beside them. He caught the glance of the quaint-looking woman sitting in the passenger seat and smiled brightly at her, waving at her enthusiastically when she paid attention to him, his face lighting up.

He was not aware that it was because of his strange appearance-though she did not know she was being hailed by a God of Death, most mortals could still sense something amiss about him-and she awkwardly smiled in return, sort of raising her hand as well. That caused Shini to beam in return and Heero momentarily glanced over to see just what the hell he was doing now, and accidentally turned that glare on the poor woman. She started a little before Heero turned his attention back to the streetlight, which incidentally had just turned green after an eternity, and the motorcycle gunned ahead, jolting forward suddenly. As they thundered away, Shini was once again clamped happily around his disgruntled husband and, those facts unknown to the woman, she could have sworn she saw a whip of thin black wagging from underneath the gothic-looking cloak he wore. But shortly after that, the car she was riding in turned and sped off to its own corner of Tokyo.

While _Youkai_ rumbled on, the Shinigami sitting behind the mortal was busy turning his head from side to side, eager to absorb all that he could-after all, it'd been centuries since he'd seen any of the beauty of Earth and many more years since he'd seen Tokyo, and there was no telling how long it would be before he would see it again. Through his unruly bangs dancing every which way in the wind as Heero maneuvered his way around traffic, edging over the line into illegally sometimes, Shini eyes raked along the skyline, absolutely awed when he came in few of the sky scrapers and the seemingly endless concrete jungle of bright signs, bustling shops, and electronic billboards. The last time he'd had a glance at civilization, it been long before the idea for establishing colonies in space was even imagined and back when mail had been carried pony from pony across the American West. The modern city amazed him; it was near the equivalent of dropping one of the creatures from Alice's Wonderland into the actual world.

Deeper into the city, now fully flanked by traffic on all sides, they hit a green light as Heero took a smooth turn onto a less crowded road. The speedometer needle was bobbing a little higher than it should have been, but Shini wouldn't have noticed and anyway, he was gaping up at the metallic giants around him. His eyes suddenly wandered past the immediate buildings and alighted on a distant, but very much familiar, figure. His arms tightened around Heero's waist suddenly and he felt some of the air running out of him from the sheer force of it.

"Hey! He knows that one! He's seen that before!" he chirped proudly, jabbing a finger at the lofty red and white tower to show his mortal husband. "That is the Eiffel Tower, he knows! Ha, see? He does know of something mortal."

Glancing up briefly from the road, Heero caught sight of what the Shinigami was pointing out, snorted to himself, and turned his head back around, chuckling in his helmet. "No, it's not," he said smugly, noting with a little smirk how the deity's arms twitched unhappily around his waist when he said that and he gave an automatic indignant snort.

"_Oi_! Little storm cloud, rain on his parade, why don't you?" Shini said unhappily, unwinding a hand from around his husband to knock him on the head once. From behind him, he shot him a childish look and an inch of tongue peeped out in a raspberry. But, nevertheless, he put the arm back around him, though not necessarily to hold on, and looked back up at the tower. He was disappointed and his expression showed it. "You are sure that's not it? Because he saw it in an authentic photograph, he did! Solo showed him once. It came in the mail."

"No. That's Tokyo Tower. It's a rip-off the Eiffel Tower," Heero answered plainly. "That's in France, Shini."

"He knows, he lived there once." He sighed. "He just forgot, that's all. It was a very long time ago. He just saw it and thought it was."

"France?" Though he was terribly late, most likely on the verge of unemployment and would probably have to stoop to shuffling through the job pool again if he were any later-all things that, if he sat and thought about them for too long, could make him tear out his hair-he was curious enough about the Shinigami's past list of caretakers, to know there were others who had suffered the same, and opened his mouth to speak pleasantly to the deity for a change. "When was that?"

"Your mortal year of 1285, but he knows it better as when he was turning a thousand and five. They had just made him leave his home and he could not live in Hell anymore," Shini answered with a mild nostalgic smile as he bent his neck to rest his head on Heero's shoulder. "His first caretaker lived in France, he remembers. It was so long ago he barely can think of his face, it's nothing but a blur."

"What was his name?" Heero was listening while simultaneously craning his neck to scan for traffic, about to take the final turn of their journey, barely a mile from his building and already catching sight of it down the road.

"Phillipe."

"That was it?"

"He did not have a last name," the Shinigami answered with a shrug. "He was orphaned, also."

Heero snorted a little morbidly to himself, though he thought with a little irony that the tone was probably lost on the innocent God of Death riding passenger with him on his motorcycle. "Like me, I guess. I'm beginning to see a pattern." He paused to shake his head. "What did this Phillipe do for a living in thirteenth century France, then"

"Sang songs-he was a troubadour. He'd come back home to Shini with a hat-full of coins and he would carve little wooden dolls for him, but he's lost them all by now. He died in his sleep in one year. He'd forgotten to finish his last carving for Shini," the Angel of Death finished quietly, doused in a saddening nostalgia. But, as could be expected, the expression did not last long before some semblance of curiosity or a smile would break out and shove the memory troubling him aside for the time being. He lifted his head and ran his eyes up and down the gleaming surface of Heero's helmet, tilting to the side inquisitively so that his long eartails whipped in the wind over his shoulders. "What do you do for living, _Teishu?_"

"Photography" he grunted plainly, paying more attention to the road at the time than to what exactly came out of his mouth. He was nearing their destination and getting closer and closer to the unpleasant employer and job endangerment he would be facing inevitably.

"So _that's_ why you have so many pictures, huh? But _Okasan_ told him that you had been a soldier, right?"

"Yeah" Heero answered dully, momentarily lapsing into memory. "That was a while ago. I stayed away from the military for a long time after my parents died, but eventually I had to, for the money. It wasn't fun, but at least I never had to go hungry."

"What happened?" The Shinigami picked up cautiously on the subtle tone in the mortal's voice, a depressing pitch that made his normally monotone voice even more lifeless as he spoke up, unabashedly blunt and dark about the truth. He kept his arms tight around his waist, hoping it could give him some comfort and help to coax him out of his shell a little. Feeling a little brave, he even put his chin on Heero's tensed-up shoulder.

"I got kicked out with a dishonorable discharge. They had enough respect for my father and enough pity on me for the death of my parents on a military base to print it as an 'honorable' one in all the documents, but it really wasn't. My father's memory didn't not make me a troublemaker, I guess." An equally listless snort came a second later. "I used to go into these rages while I was on base and I would go off at any remark. I hospitalized one of them and disfigured a few others I didn't get along with. I went into depressions at night that would make me angry in the morning, and the cycle would repeat. So I lost my position after I worked years to earn it."

There could be no heavy silence between them, with the engine still going steadily beneath them as Heero continued down the road, nearing the gleaming building, but with a certain lackluster tone to his expression. Shini gave a sympathetic look to the back of his head and was just about to squeeze his arms around him and give him a word of comfort, when they finally came in full view of their destination, the standard-looking metallic structure, and Heero abruptly gunned the engine and whipped into the underground parking lot beside it. The speed at which they went down the slope put the Shinigami's stomach up into his throat in a way that wasn't unpleasant, just a little surprising. He let out a little sound of excitement and gripped tighter as Heero motored down the narrow lane, yellow lights glistening over his helmet.

Ahead there was a little station with large glass windows for checking I.D. with a rather round man sitting in it, idly the time with a small television he'd manage to squeeze in there, displaying some American daytime television show. Approaching the lowered bar hanging across the lane, Heero did not show any signs of slowing down. Instead, he revved the engine as he drove the motorcycle onto the thin strip of cement running along side the lane to prevent the very thing he was doing, and buzzed by the lowered gate without a worry. The man sitting in the chair watched the motorcycle go by in a thundering growl and smiled to himself. He watched Heero and guest turn the corner and disappear, picking up a magazine with a laugh. "Pretty late today, Yuy." He chuckled and changed the channel with his foot.

* * *

A rancorous little frown found its way onto Heero's face and made itself very comfortable there when he came down the hall, trying to be unobtrusive while dragging a dangerously curious deity behind him past the other workers who'd been on time, and found his own work room at the end of the hall packed up into a number of cardboard boxes and shoved outside the door. The stacks of assorted old microwave boxes and others were slathered in duct tape to keep them from falling apart at the seams; every last thing that had sat in his room had been evicted and now moped outside of it. Some piles reached almost as high as his shoulders and they filled the entire end of the hall like a strange sculpture. Heero stood in the center of this, his expression souring with every passing moment, with Shini standing behind him silently, just peering cautiously at the boxes, not knowing their significance because he'd never really learned to read English but realizing whatever it was, it wasn't making his husband very happy at all. 

He let go of the Shinigami's wrist and stepped over a box marked in sloppy Sharpie scribbling, "_Negatives,_" and tried the doorknob. It was firmly locked, so he stopped and turned his severe face toward the wall beside the door. Even the stacked windows to the side of the door had been blocked out, Shini noticed, before Heero stepped in front of them, reaching down to the side to the outlet embedded in the wall. He pulled out the loosened bottom screw and swung the plastic panel to reveal a little cranny by the bared socket that should have held a little metal key, but now was very much empty. He slammed it shut, jammed the screw back in, straightened up with a grumble, and looked over at Shini, who'd already given in to his overwhelming curiosity and started sniffing around at the boxes, rattling a few with a tap of the finger.

Heero saved him from the full force of his glare and instead just warned"Stay here and please just don146;t make a mess of anything." The Shinigami straightened up quickly and pulled his hands away from the box labeled, "_Lenses,_" and clasped them innocently behind his back.

"Of course not," he beamed back obediently, secretly tossing another glance at another promising-looking box.

Not secret enough, because Heero shook his head admonishingly at him. "I mean it, Shinigami. Now, just sit here and, I don't know-count ceiling tiles or something. I just blew my last chance, apparently, and now I've got to go get my job and my goddamned key back, so don't talk to strangers." He walked past the deity, who promptly mock-saluted and grinned. Heero paused, noticing the wind-tousled, unbrushed state of the Angel of Death's hair and thinking how he probably looked no more presentable himself, sighed and added. "And don't take any candy from them, either."

"Right, right," he said, grin widening. "Cross his heart, hope to die, stick a needle in his eye." Once his _Teishu_ had stalked down the hall with all the vexation of the last few days conveniently choosing to exercise itself today and disappeared around a corner, he grinned and revealed the second hand hiding behind his back, index and middle finger entwined impishly, and sat down on the carpet with the first box he saw, tearing at the duct tape and sticking his head inside in curiosity. While he started his long inquisition through his _Teishu's_ boxed possessions, that mortal was at moment at his supervisor's office door, with a secretary a little agape as he strolled past the reception desk and snatched the doorknob.

"Excuse me," she blurted quickly, her pen dropping from her hand onto the opened appointment book, cradling the phone against her neck with the other. "Yuy-_san_, you can't just barge in! Takamura-_sama _is taking his early lunch break at the moment."

Heero didn't hesitate as he pushed the door open, shooting an answer over his shoulder. "Good. With his mouth full, he might actually listen for a change."

He came across the sight of his superior, obviously taken aback by the sudden entrance but his calm, stone-faced expression did not change even as he was caught with a clump of rice halfway up to his mouth. Heero gave him a standard unreadable and unmovable stare while he shut the door, locked it with a twist of his hand, and stood before the man in charge with a challenge in his eye. He bowed stiffly, out of sheer ceremony, to the man wiping the rice grains from his upper lip, and even then it was so indignant it was hardly a movement at all. He remained silent, his eyes dark and seething enough to let Takamura know he'd better explain himself, and quick. As sharp as the look was, the man took his time in politely putting his chopsticks down, pushing the bowl to the side, and folding his hands on the table.

His eyes ran up and down the young man before him and spoke finally, unrushed. "Even with your native blood, Yuy-_san_, you still have the awful temper on par with that of the foolish Americans themselves. You only have your father to blame for that, you know."

"Righteous anger knows no country borders, Takamura-_sama,_" he replied in a distinct monotone, though his eyes were silently aflame. "I'd like to request as to why you ordered all my things to suddenly get shoved out into the hallway, supervisor. Please, indulge me."

"Once you get rid of your anger, yes, Yuy-_san_." He cooed back calmly, hands still folded on the tabletop. When Heero's dark-blue eyes began to get their daggers at the ready and he realized he would not compromise that, Takamura smiled minimally and extended a hand. "Take a seat, then, please. Or would you rather me just come out and tell you that you're fired while you're on your feet, Yuy-_san?_"

With that, Heero did sit himself down in the chair he stood beside, but the stubborn look in his eye didn't lessen as he did so.

"Good" Takamura sighed, secretly relieved he146;d gotten the young man to settle a little. He was not a stupid employer; he'd hired the young Japanese man knowing fully of his capacity for outbursts when under extreme cases of stress and how he'd bloodied the faces of men twice his size and strength in a matter of seconds. He hesitated before speaking up. After all, he wanted to word things just right to avoid starting him up into another dangerous state.

"You're very late," he stated after a moment's silence.

"Yes," Heero ground out. He kept silent after that.

"Care to explain yourself, Yuy-_san?_"

The generally pissed expression lulled for a moment. The corner of his lip hooked in tiny, aberrant smirk, but it soon disappeared. "It's a very, very long story. I'd prefer not to."

"You have time. You are fired, after all. No need to hurry back to work just yet," the older man answered.

"You have no reason to fire me, Takamura-_sama,_" Heero said, a certain growl forming.

"On the contrary, Yuy-_san_, I have had the evidence for a time now, and I'm just now putting this into enforcement. You don't have the authority to be arguing with me about your worth at a time like this." Unfolding his heavily lined hands, he found his thin-rimmed glasses and put them on. "You may be the most skilled of all my employees, but talent alone cannot excuse you forever. On top of the issue of your irrelevant and abstract work, and the fact you refuse to sell half of your photographs, you have begun a practice of absenteeism that I cannot condone. In the last year, you alone have been the one to double our figures of absences."

"You got a copy of my physician's orders; you know all of those days were legitimate."

"Yes, yes they were," Takamura said, sitting impeccably straight. "It is my right to exercise my authority critically on whomever I chose, no matter if the reasons are legitimate. In the end, I basically may fire you for any reason I choose. Was that not your understanding?"

"I understand," Heero growled, back into a corner again.

"Good," his supervisor said, not moving to adjust his glasses even as he glanced down at his desk and pulled a sheet of paper in front of him. "Now, back to the issue at hand. You indeed have a stress-syndrome, Yuy-san, but to myself, it is nothing more than a simple case of mental _karoshi, _deterioration in the work ethic brought on by emotional stress and overwork. I accept it, but I do not pity you for it. You are far too talented-though a little misguided-to let this get in your way, I believe. You did manage to get through the three men holding you back to severely injure Private Naroki of your division the week of your discharge; I don't think a little sleeplessness could really stop you."

Heero's stare fixated on that unchanging calm, lined face darkened a little. He did not want to loose this job. "If you say I'm so talented, Takamura-_sama_, why are you so eager to dispose of me, then?"

"I am not. I regret it, but it is a decision for the best. I granted you a two-week vacation, Yuy-_san_, and you repay me immediately with a severe tardiness. This is discipline."

"Why strike the dog if you're only going to shoot him?" Heero quipped back, unfazed by his supervisor'own stare to fight the sentence.

"Yuy-_san_, I will not stoop to repeat myself. You have failed me in more than one way, and your highly uncommercial work is another topic of concern I, but I do not have the time nor the patience to do so now, so I'll ask you to suffice with the reason I've given you. You should be so lucky to get a reason, after rudely interrupting me and disrespecting my secretary, that is."

A little throbbing vein returned just above Heero's eye, one that ran straight into his brain and filled it with all the promptly updated stress. He'd had enough with superior authorities snubbing him in the last week to practically go berserk, and loosing his job on top of the binding proposal shoved onto him by Iria did not help that feeling. He was about to stand and protest his sentence, a very un-Japanese quality, when both men paused, hearing another commotion coming from the secretary as someone passed her without permission, going into the supervisor's office. A second later, Heero turned to see the familiar brunet head of the Shinigami poking in through the cracked door, a large glossy photo clutched in one hand.

"_Teishu_, you did not tell him that you had such beautiful pictures," Shini said, running a hand along the laminated surface of the photopaper and hardly paying attention to anything else.

Though he'd grown used to the name and hardly registered the true meaning of it, Heero was the only one, and to hear the strange young man standing in the door address him as husband startled the supervisor a little, though it only showed in a puzzled, furrowed face.

"I told you to stop calling me that!" Heero hissed beneath his breath, walking quickly toward the door towards the awed deity, taking on color like a sinking ship takes on water. "And I told you specifically to stay put-and you promised me you would! Hope to die, remember that"

Shini brightened up inevitably as his mortal husband came closer, taking him by the shoulder and about to turn him out of the room. He laughed. "He cannot die, silly. Besides, you are too unhappy, Heero, you know? You should relax. Nothing bad happened because of him yet, see," he pointed out, still admiring the photograph even as he was about to be pushed away from the office door. He caught a glimpse of the aged man sitting behind the business desk, watching the scene with a sharp eye, and lifted up the black and white print. "Have you seen it? It's wonderful, huh?"

Heero took the photo out of his hand and gave him a look.

"_Oi_, Heero!"

"Excuse me," Takamura suddenly spoke up, interrupting the imminent dispute between the two. Heero turned his head to look at his supervisor again, and soon saw that there was a familiar little key sitting in his open palm, extended across the table. He put it down on his desk and withdrew, folding his hands back into their former, stately position. The uncompromising look still remained, in all its difficult glory, but his words implied something beside the stiff expression he wore as he said flatly, "Clever hiding place, Yuy-_san_, but you'll need to find a better one this time. Don't disappoint me again and get to cleaning up that mess outside your office, please. And tomorrow, I expect you here precisely on time."

Heero suddenly had nothing to retort with and remained still, surprised by the abrupt turn, and Shini turned a grin toward him. "See? Nothing bad, partn'r." he drawled, nudging his husband with an elbow.

* * *

_Karoshi_ death by overwork; a word that could have only been created by the Japanese.

* * *

AN: I will not say it, I will not complain about how late updating I am. I try durn hard, dammit! Just can't convince myself of that fact, though. -. Sorry to bitch about myself. The title is one of my fave R.E.M. songs off Automatic for the People. Getting closer to the finale of this first arc! And if I don't post by the 14th, Happy Valentine's Day. 


	20. Happy Bivouac

Chapter 20

"Happy Bivouac"

After they'd stepped out of the supervisor's office, after Heero'd freely offered the secretary an apology for his rude behavior with a traditional Japanese bow of respect, the Shinigami mimicking the sentiment beside him with a grin, he still couldn't quite grasp what the hell had just happened. He had been sure that he had lost his job one moment, snapping at the innocent Shinigami, and in a split second, all that had changed and he'd found himself back in good with his supervisor. As they walked, Heero kneaded the metallic key between his fingers, as if it would eventually wear down and reveal the answer to him. Shini tagged along close behind, still clutching the photograph and happily swinging it and waving to the employees through the windows of their doors as they passed. He nearly tripped over one of the boxes, not paying attention, as they came to the end of the hall. Heero was already unlocking the door as Shini stepped in line behind him and flashed the offending cardboard box a sour bit of tongue. He pushed it open, but did not move for a second.

"Something wrong, Heero?" the deity asked cautiously, titling his head to the side so he could see around the mortal's shoulder. "Hm?"

"Nothing." He brushed the concern off casually and leaned over to snatch a box from of the top of the nearest stack, nudged the door open with a hip, and went inside.

The studio was reasonably sized, for being located deep within the city of Tokyo, that is, and was just as was to be expected from this particular young mortal. It was pretty simplistic and organized for an artist's workshop, and even though the room had been rooted and all the items inside boxed and moved outside, it was still pristinely clean. Heero never bragged about his artistic side—Hell, he never really thought of himself that way; he never was as erratically genius as what he thought real artists were—so he prided himself more on being organized with his work. The walls were white and pristine, and the cupboards and sink pressed against one wall had been painted a solid, classic black and weren't cluttered, if you had looked before the stuff had been removed. The door to the darkroom, which had actually been a large storage closet before Heero's conversion, was the only part of the room actually decorated, tacked with some of the favorite pictures he'd ever bought. Beneath the picture of a girl highlighted in the Shibuya crosswalk inscribed with an infamous Basho poem, the one about looking like a stranger in one's new clothes, hung a tiny sign engraved with the kanji for "knock first."

The one window in the room, facing an expanse of Tokyo skyline and a neon billboard sign that flashed at night, was uncluttered with curtains and let in the charming glow of the cloudy morning.

Heero set his load down on the nearest table and began unloading it, an assortment of photographs grouped together by paperclip piling up lopsidedly. His gaze was focused intently on his work, no matter how menial it was, almost trying not to acknowledge that the Angel of Death that had been following him around for the last few days, unbeknownst to the rest of the human race. Said deity seated himself on his desk beside the box, flowing into this position so easily it was as if he were floating half the time, and promptly began to snatch groups of prints out from the sharpie-marked box while the mortal was taking from the opposite side.

The Shinigami flipped through them almost rapturously, black and white after black and white. They not only fascinated him because they were photographs, something that was still new and novel to him, but because they were very good. Being raised in Hell did not leave for much mainstream mortal exposure, so Shini's mind had yet to be spoiled by the flashy, gaudy colors of television and gratuitous, glitzy American cinema and he could appreciate them for their subtle, humble beauty. Heero did not go for the automatic photograph; he did not hunt through Tokyo's streets scrounging for newsworthy snapshots that could garner attention and fill his pocket with quick cash, though he could have, with the rate of murders and assaults growing as of late. He could have lured the cutest girls to his lens, seeing how they flocked to blue eyes, but he'd never done it. For days, he'd go about the streets, looking for whatever pulled a string in him. He never had listened to what anyone told him was made a good print, what was buy-able—he spent rolls of film on one single temple, knowing very well every person in Japan had seen enough of shrines and wouldn't bother to buy another picture of one, but not caring either way. It wasn't his camera, and many times he'd had to borrow film and equipment and other things, but he was as sure as Hell never going to know what other people thought was beautiful. He only had a vague sense of his own appreciation of beauty, only as well defined as anybody else's, and it was all he cared to listen to.

The first picture he'd ever taken had been of his father sitting on the younger, polished motorcycle, with his mother laughing and playfully shoving his shoulder. The lighting wasn't perfect, and it was off-center—he'd twitched at the last moment—but he would never have changed it for anything.

Besides, maybe, to get his parents back, he thought.

"He does not know what that man thinks, or how he could say your pictures are not good enough, but he disagrees with him," the Shinigami was saying brightly, still peering through the piles he stole away from the box. "Your photographs are better than that man could dream to do, he bets! He's only jealous, that's why he tried to—what was it? Roast you?"

"Fire, Shini," Heero murmured absently, his fingers moving mechanically as he started to turn to put away the photographs in the drawer where'd they'd been before being evicted. "He wanted to take my job away. That's called firing someone." He shook his head a little. "You were just sitting out there listening, weren't you?" he muttered to himself, and the Shinigami did not catch it.

"But they do not actually put you in flames," he said distinctly. "That's a ridiculous name, then, no?"

"I suppose." The mortal gave a little tired sigh as he turned around, casually took the photographs out of Shini's hand, and put them in the drawer as well. He'd have to get around to finding a place for them soon. "It's just what they say. No one really thinks about those things anymore. It's just become something we do so much we don't notice how strange it can be."

Shini's gaze rested on Heero's back as he stood at the drawer, tiredly standing there for a moment. Sitting on the black-countered island near the cupboards, the God of Death innocently rested his chin in his palm, propping his elbow on top of his knee, still watching his arranged husband work. His eyes traced him as he walked back to the island to pick up the emptied cardboard box, drop it to the floor beside him, and casually kick it to a corner, where he'd pile the rest of the boxes inevitably. Heero seemed to take another listless pause, just staring out at the rest of the studio, and the deity tilted his head.

"Why did he not fire you?"

Heero snorted to himself and glanced up. "Why were you outside the door, when I asked you to stay put?" he asked in return, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Because he followed you," he answered shamelessly, smiling warmly, with all the blind loyalty of man's best friend. The ironic thing he was to grow up to be man's worst enemy: Death incarnate. "Now," he urged, "tell him why you were not cast in the flames, _Teishu_?"

"Stop saying that name in public," Heero said immediately. When the Shinigami's expression seemed to bow like a pup caught beneath his master's reprimanding, pointed finger, and he pouted a little, he sighed again. "People aren't all used to you being here in the first place, paired with the fact that you look like you just walked out of a medieval nightmare—" At that point, Shini looked puzzled and glanced over his jet-black silk cloak. "—and they're really not used to seeing two men married, or even mentioning it."

"But Heero, we are not two men—he is Shinigami, no man at all!"

"It's better for them to think you're a man, rather then them know the truth," the mortal muttered, and Shini nodded in agreement, though he was still squinting a little over his husband's medieval comment. Heero went back to the door, nudged it open with his foot as he walked, and picked up another box of his evicted equipment to bring back to the island and set beside the deity perched there, cross-legged and his hands clasped over his ankles. He wore a pair of Heero's old ratty, mustard-colored sneakers, the opposite of the divine garb he wore, and the shoelaces were undone down to the last few holes, nearly falling out. He was opening the box when he said, to answer the Shinigami's first question, "And I think Takamura honestly thought I was married to you, so he gave me back the job. He's a little ironfisted when it comes to me paying rent for the studio, but he'd never deprive a man of his means to provide for a family. Though I don't know how the hell he bought it"

"See," Shini beamed, his demonic tail twisting in the air joyously as it peeked out, "he was good for something, wasn't he!"

Heero snorted in a mild laugh, then turned a half-skeptical look at the deity. "Sure, but you're not going to make me do all this work myself. That's not what spouses do here on Earth, Shini," he informed him, jerking a thumb toward the door cluttered with the cardboard structure as he pried a box of clean photopaper open and making the Angel of Death groan in complaint. When Heero gave him a look, pinning the responsibility on him with his eyes, Shini returned with a stubborn look and grudgingly twitched his mouth, in the same manner Heero remembered Iria had back in the storage shed in America. A moment later, a cardboard box was compelled by a tiny ball of Darkness shoving it to slide a few feet into the studio and stop near the mortal's feet. It wasn't a complicated stunt, by any stretch, as the deity had yet to realize his full ability, waiting for a demonic pubescence that was impossible to determine.

"There, he helped." The victorious grin spread and a tip of tongue flashed at him.

Heero couldn't get him to keep working, though. The deity was smugly set in his belief that he'd done enough of mortal work for the day, his face possessed by a impish smile, and would teleport silently from one side of the room to another whenever that blue-eyed stare would fall on him, skeptical of how much he'd really contributed. So, that's how it came to be that the Shinigami was standing on the counter of the island, while Heero was trying to delicately untangle the contents of the box of negatives, which had apparently been packed by an ape of a man. He was casually strolling, the sneakers discarded to the tile flooring, across the cool marbletop, relishing the feeling of the cold stone on his perfectly human-looking toes. Heero was sitting on a stool he'd pulled up, grumbling in surly impatience at every knot of film he came across, wondering how in Hell someone had managed to make such a mess out of his things. He did not approve of the deity standing on the island, but as soon as he tried to catch him, Shini would simply became nothing but air and reappear out of his reach and resume his former position as soon as his arm was no longer outstretched. "Innocent, my ass," was all he had to mutter to himself.

"_Ne_, _Teishu_," the Shinigami started up, breaking off from a casual narrative of his wonders on mortal ways that had become the background noise of the room for the last ten minutes, "What were you doing in America, anyway?"

"Stupid American game show," he answered. "Stupid decision, really. But I wanted the money they had to offer, and sitting with ghosts that I knew didn't exist for two nights seemed like easy cash."

"But they are real." Shini grinned, walking along the edge of the marbletop, outstretching his arms for balance and his tail whipping and twisting at his heels as well. "He hopes you know _that_ by now."

"I've learned my lesson, if that's what you mean," he muttered back, hunched over while he pinched through a delicate mess of negatives. "I wanted the money to buy my own equipment, to rent out my own studio, away from the city, but things didn't go the way they were supposed to."

Shini snickered while he lifted a foot in the air to balance himself precariously on the edge, flexing his toes in the air. "You did not think you would really summon something at all, huh?"

Heero had been eyeing the Shinigami secretly as he walked around the edges of the island, glancing up from the knot he was loosening to watch his humanlike feet. His demonic tail pulsated at his ankles, flicking back and forth to help keep his balance. "No, I just didn't think anything borne of shadows could be just as troublesome a child," he retorted. With that, his hand snatched out at the deity's tail, twitching like eager bait, and he yanked forcefully, pulling the Shinigami so he flopped suddenly down onto the tabletop. A half-growl, half-yelp—a _grewlp_—came abruptly out of his mouth, but he snapped it shut to give his husband a disgruntled stare over his shoulder.

"Don't walk on the table," Heero told him, with a hint of humor that was unmistakable. "Then you won't have to get in trouble—Hey!"

Shini's tail whipped away from where it'd flicked his nose and he stood up off the table, giggling, his good mood already restored. Before he moved away, off to fidget around the room some more, he flicked his tail again and Heero swatted it pointedly away from his face. After a second, he let his hand down again and a smirk managed its way to surface over the disgruntled expression.

Most of this time that day was spent unloading his boxed-up possessions and imitating the original organization he'd had to all his equipment and prints. They'd even cleared out his darkroom, save for the major machinery, which wasn't his to own to begin with. He finally came across the cardboard box that held his favorite camera, one he'd managed to already put a down payment on, hoping to one day own it solely. While he had been working, the Shinigami had soon run out of ways to successfully bother his husband when he was engrossed with a task at hand and went around, using curiosity to sate his restlessness. He'd ruffled through cupboards, teleported into the vents and reappeared on the floor, sneezing profusely, and tried to find spiders to take a pet in all corners of the room.

He now was playing a game of memory, something he never explained whom he'd learned it from, with old sets of doubles. Flipped over, the Shinigami had thirteen pairs of photographs from a disposable camera, taken long ago of the housefire that happened near Heero's home a year and a half ago. He sat on the clean, white tile flooring and adjusted the block of overturned pictures with a content grin. Black silk robes spilled out around him like a pool of liquid night as he sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to decide with which to begin. Heero was still sitting on the stool, making checks on his camera, and occasionally would glance up at the Shinigami, watching for a moment as he either flip a picture back over, puzzling, or laugh and toss the pair over his shoulder in victory. Occasionally became intermittently, and that in turn became regularly. This continued until Heero had quit paying attention to the camera and watched Shini's game and the various expressions that went across his face. He had to peer over the island to see the God of Death squinting intensely over his gameboard, halfway through.

He picked up a picture and didn't bother to glance at it. Apparently, he'd been searching for the match for it for many turns. His fingers hovered over the plain white backs intently, wavering. A flash of pink tongue appeared pinched between his lips, so concentrated that he didn't notice Heero staring.

He was so engrossed in the game he began to feel uncomfortable under the heavy cloak that kept his wings hidden from mortal view and after a while, forgot himself and shrugged it off. It slid off his body without a noise and pooled around him, freeing his divine appendages to stretch out as they pleased. Even though he had seen them before, he found himself repressing an astonished gape as he watched.

The glossy white tiles reflected a watery, blurred image of the great midnight black wingspan, not nearly as beautiful as the actual wings themselves. Shini barely realized what he was doing, still so intently trying to pry his memory and pull up a match, and Heero did not realize that if the door was to open at that moment, their secret was blown, and only stared. He watched the fabric of the loose white tank top stretch to allow the angelic wings open up completely and the good lighting brought out a sublime shimmer on the feathers, darkly violet in color. They were arched in the air regally, displaying each of the perfectly formed flight feathers, like an eagle crouched to spring from it's perch, and the auxiliary muscles that held them, gave them strength, tensed and pulsed beneath the Shinigami's skin, bulging against the shirt.

Shini lifted one of the photographs and tried to decide if was the same picture he sought, or just one of the very similar ones that frustrated him. He was blissfully unaware of his moment of beauty and of his husband's rapt expression.

Heero felt his fingers clenching around the weight of the camera and lifted it, an action so automatic and natural to him it felt like simply opening up his eyes. He lifted it up to one blue eye and shut the other, capturing an image of the Shinigami in the glass and a second later it clicked—picture taken. Shini noticed the noise, still holding the little photo in his hand, and turned his head toward the mortal. Heero snapped another, this time centered on his face, and let the camera drop hesitantly, finally realizing what he was doing. Shini, too, was just grasping that he had taken off the cloak that hid his identity, but far more interested in his _Teishu_ and the camera he held.

Someone knocked. Heero jumped almost vertically off the stool, startled.

"Package for you, Yuy-_san_," the man behind the door announced, finding it open and pushing it open. "You left in your box this morning. I noticed it when I passed by. Did check at all?"

His heart abruptly buried itself in the top of his throat, and he was too late to stop the man from wondering in on the Shinigami, his Hellish beautiful wings bore to the air. _Shit_, _shit_, _shit_, went the panicked mantra in his head.

"N-no, Ibudo-_san_," Heero hurriedly replied, recognizing the man's voice as the older photographer from down the hall, who'd also rented a studio from Takamura in the crowded Tokyo metropolis. He tried to meet him at the door and prevent him from stumbling upon a Shinigami sitting on his floor, but he knew he couldn't quite make it.

He chuckled nervously and even before the grey-haired Japanese man could get fully in the door, the younger man was taking the package gratefully. "Thanks," he said offhandedly, trying to shut the door on the other photographer without outright slamming it in his face. But in the end, that's basically what he ended up doing. He could hear the old man's concerned voice on the other side.

"Yuy-_san_, something wrong—?"

"No, just fine," he replied hurriedly, locking the door and whipping his head up to see where the Shinigami was, the camera held in one hand, the strap flapping back and forth from the sudden movement. The poor, unexpecting man's voice faded off with a few bewildered mumbles as he traveled down the hall again, but Heero was too busy trying to figure out where in Hell the Shinigami had gone to pay attention. The photographs were still scattering in the air from some abrupt wind and settling to the floor. The deity's pitch-black silk cloak was rumpled in a pile. There was no sign of him at all.

Heero's heart was finally descending from inside his throat; maybe he hadn't been spotted at all.

"Shini?"

He started silently, hearing something fall out of a cupboard against the wall. The mortal turned in time to see a few small boxes get pushed out as the Shinigami stuck his head out tentatively. "Can he come out of here now?"

Heero sighed and leaned against the counter. Unfortunately, the excess adrenaline did not leave his body with his long breath, and Shini clumsily teleported out and ended up sprawled on the floor. He chuckled nervously and brushed the long strands of hair out of his face, ruffling his feathers as he laughed. "That was close," he said. "But he kind of enjoyed it."

"I'm glad someone did," Heero muttered, walking over to pick up the dislodged items. "That was _too_ close, Shini. You should be a little more careful. We'd both be in a Hell of trouble if you were seen by the wrong person."

"Ah," the deity drawled, handing the box to his husband, content to cross his legs and remain where he sat. "Nothing bad happened—we were lucky today! Why not be happy?"

"Because my head's just about killing me now," Heero answered, smirking a little. "I'll be happy when you learn to stop being such a handful."

As the mortal walked up to the counter, beside where the Shinigami sat on the floor, his wings shivering against the polished wood as he tried to keep them inconspicuous, the divine watched him stretch up to put the dislodged things back where they'd been before. The ruffled shirt that Heero wore raised just enough, and Shini grinned secretively. "He can learn," he answered, his half-lidded eyes tracing his husband's movements as he walked off to pick up the cloak off the floor.

As he turned, Shini could not draw his hungering gaze off the mortal's compelling shoulders and the enticing physique that advertised itself almost tauntingly, even through the loose shirt he wore. Heero would frown like he had no idea how exquisite his face was, walked like he knew nothing of his perfect legs, dressed like he didn't know how well blue jeans accentuated the curve of his ass. Shini had not forgotten what had first drawn his eye to Heero Yuy, a lonely, beautiful mortal, and what kept his mind entertained with off-color fantasy.

Limbo had never been an entertaining place to the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami, seeing how he had never been mortal, and therefore had never died, and never worried about his heavenly status. He did not have any reason to be in that place of lingering for souls not yet oriented to an afterlife other than he had no other home to stay at the time. His mother Iria could not be with him the entire time to carefully monitor each of his often troublemaking moves—she had a business of love to run and was notoriously self-absorbed to boot—and he was alone or sleeping for most of his time there. Shini tried and tried to speak with the human souls that resided there, in anticipation of their heavenly ascent or their dark descent. But they were often too busy to waste their time with him, or too depressed to pay attention. So, in turn, Shini was left alone, left to his own devices of entertainment. Sleeping had remedied that problem most of the time, but not even he could sleep forever, seeing as he would eventually run out of dreams after months and sometimes years had passed in mortal time. So one day, he'd snuck past the fence that kept the Watching Pools separate from the rest of Limbo.

Watching Pools were small, circular windows to the mortal realm in the floor of Limbo that appeared as if reflections on the other side of a pool of water. They were kept from the transient souls, as they might be tempted to look back on the realm they had left and double their regret, but Shini had never been one to follow the rules, or look for them in the first place. He'd slipped by only for a while—after that, they'd barred them off from even the Angel of Death, and he'd been forced to find new entertainment—but it had been worth it.

He'd just happened to sprawl out in front of the window overlooking the Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo, scrolling casually along, giving a few to all the assorted men and women walking and weaving amongst each other. And he'd seen one in particular, who'd glanced up to the sky as he'd walked, inadvertently staring up at the Shinigami who stared down simultaneously. It was the blue eyes that made him look twice, and by the third look, Shini's interest had been fully absorbed. A silent transmission, the image of the mortal man, twenty-two years old, turned away and began to trudge along the white crosswalk lines. But the sight of his face had already been burned into the Shinigami's sight and he leaned closer over the edge until his nose bumped the surface. Brushing the stinging stuff off his face, Shini tried to see through the ripple that he'd accidentally caused, but as soon as the surface calmed he saw nothing of the blue-eyed mortal, only a mass of people crossing.

He'd been obsessed, from the moment after that, with the Watching Pool that lay over the crosswalk, and often had to dodge the authorities in Limbo to return to his spot to keep his watch. His mortal would not reappear all the time, but the few times he did catch another glimpse, his face would light up like a candle.

It'd been another two years mortal time before Iria had been able to track down the blue-eyed mortal in Shibuya Crossing, at her son's enthusiastic begging, and give Shini a name for the face. And after she had watched him carefully, bringing a report to her overjoyed son week after week, decided he could stay with his blue-eyed mortal. A few months later, as Heero Yuy crouched in a dark hallway of a rundown, haunted manor, Shini found himself face to face with his new mortal husband, and the rest was well, a few days ago.

The God of Death, realizing slowly that Heero had walked off, blinked out of his reverie. "_Teishu_?"

"You know I said I didn't want you calling me that," the mortal answered, though his voice came from far off. The door to the darkroom was slightly ajar as he went about replacing all the things that had been snatched out of it, containers of developing solutions and the lines stretched from corner to corner where Heero had hung his newest photos with clothespins.

"You can drop the honorifics, Shini. I'm not older than you, and I'm not immortal, either. Besides, I have a perfectly good name of my own," he said, nudging a bottle of fixer into the cabinet below the counter in the darkroom. He could see that the Shinigami stood at the door from the shadow he cast, now wearing his cloak to conceal his Deathly wings.

"You just do not like to be called _Teishu_, do you?"

"Yeah, it's a little strange," Heero replied with a little amused snort, as if the answer was an obvious one. To the average mortal young man, to suddenly be endowed with an unearthly husband was definitely not a usual or mundane thing, and the amusing thing was that the innocent Shinigami thought nothing of it. The ironic fact that this harbinger of Death was an effervescent, half-grown troublemaker was amusing, too.

Shini tilted his head, still peering into the darkroom cautiously. "He's only trying to be nice if he says it. Do you really dislike him saying it? Or is it strange to you because other people think it's strange?"

Heero suddenly turned around, surprised by the unusually insightful comment from the usually mischievous, youthful deity. He hesitated, taken off guard by the question and cautious to answer carefully. By no means did he want to lead the Shinigami on about anything, realizing that he had the innocence of a child, though it was often clouded by a mythical lustful demeanor inherited directly from his mother. But he just couldn't bring himself to be as straightforward and blunt as he had other times. The last thing he wanted was for Shini to burst out bawling again—he couldn't deal with tears.

"Uh—" He hesitated to answer a little longer, as the Shinigami had disappeared from the doorway to the unlit darkroom and he turned his head to the side, wondering where the hell he'd gone now. "Shin—?"

"Is there some reason he cannot call you _Teishu_, when you are his?" The deity's voice suddenly came from behind him, and Heero turned his head again to see the teleporting Shinigami sitting on the counter where he'd been working only a second ago, perched between the sink and the shallow tubs of fixer fluid with a careful expression on his face. The illuminating red light in on the wall over their heads gave his violet eyes a red wine tint that was almost as intoxicating as alcohol itself.

"Now, h-hold on a second," Heero stuttered out, still a little uneasy about the deity's ability to randomly appear where ever he chose. His face was taking on a certain color, though not completely from surprise or disagreement. "Who ever said I was yours to begin with?"

"But you are, aren't you?" the innocent expression puzzled at him, tilting his head. "_Okasan_ showed you the paper that said you were his, did she not?"

"Yes, but—"

Shini continued, his puzzled face growing cuter and cuter as he became more confused. He lifted his hand, and in the cast of the red lightbulb, a bright, crimson line glowed, winding from the Shinigami's hand to the mortal's. "And you can see the ribbon, can you not?"

Heero sighed, a little ruffled and still disturbed by the heat in his face, and set down the stack of paper he'd been organizing down on the counter, on the other side of the sink. The deity watched him, nervously toying with a strand of his hair, eyes glued on his face. It didn't really help the flush in his face. "Yes, Shini, but that doesn't make me yours, not by any stretch," he explained firmly.

As soon as Heero had finished speaking, Shini opened his mouth again, a little distressed. "But you are his husband!"

"For now, I guess," he mumbled at first, then looked the confused deity in the eyes. "But that doesn't make me your property, Shini. I'm not _yours_. That's not the way marriage works here on Earth. You're not the property of your spouse."

Luckily for Heero, the forerunning tears in the Shinigami's eyes had subsided a little, though his brows still remained wrenched together in rather charming confusion. "He's not saying you are his housewife or anything, _Teishu_—"

"I know you're not." By now, the accumulation of the heat in his face and the uncomfortable question poised by the God of Death had gotten to Heero and he itched suddenly for a little breathing room, noticing that the darkroom felt considerably smaller when occupied by two rather than one. "And you don't have to worry about it, since you're leaving in a few days. Now, that's all I want to say about it. It's done. And don't call me _Teishu_."

Shini pouted a little, blowing a lock of hair out of his face with an unsatisfied puff of air.

"Come on, it's close to lunch by now. I'm starving. If you can promise to behave, I'll get you something to eat."

Remaining completely still on the counter, even stilling the sinuous curling and unfurling of his whip-like tail to the side, the young Shinigami just stared in return with those red-wine eyes in the light of the darkroom. After a few moments silent deliberation on something, he did not open his mouth to answer his mortal husband, and only managed out a quiet, semi-defeated nod. Heero was about to turn and lead the way out of the darkened room when he felt breeze moving past him from inside the small space and was suddenly face to face with the God of Death and his intoxicating eyes. The puzzled expression was gone; a more dangerous consideration ran across his face.

"Heero," he purred quietly, rolling the sumptuous _r'_ sound of his name in his mouth as if trying it for the first time, like tasting a fine chocolate. The mortal shivered, feeling his breath on his face. "You know, he likes your name just as well, he does," he murmured. He tried it out again, wrapping his voice around it as a caress. "_Ne_, _Heero_?"

"Shinigami, don't—" Heero tried to reprimand him, discourage that same subtly impish smile that had preceded the bathtub incident, but the sentiment somehow lost its momentum and quit in his mouth. He was concentrating more on just how close the deity was creeping toward him.

"Don't what, Heero? He did not quite hear you."

The deity giggled at him, flashing an irresistible smile, and the unsuspecting mortal felt the sharp, clear edge of reality blurring, softening.

"Stop that—that thing you're doing! The illusion—knock it off" His voice had begun to sway with his muddled mind, the Shinigami's body so close scrambling his rational thought like a magnet to a computer.

He laughed again, low, throaty, as he remained mere inches from the mortal's face, just tall enough so that he could make Heero tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze. The deity remained unchanged even as the mortal knew that illusion was seeping into his mind and he began to breathe deep the smell of saltly ocean air. Bemused, a part of his mind smiled to itself. It smelled like an old memory of a summer day spent on a misty Hokkaido shore. The rest of the room had gone an unnatural but comforting black, save for the full color of the Angel of Death pressing against him, compelling him to forget all his worries and just confide in him.

Shini nudged his husband's shoulder gently. "Stop this, stop that! Stop having fun, Heero says!" He did it again, more forcefully, and Heero could have swore he felt himself falling backwards into what felt like summer grass beneath him, bedded thick under his back. "Heero is very bright, but if one always listened to what he said, would they ever have any fun? No, they wouldn't, because he is afraid of the thing!"

He drew his brows together, mildly puzzled, but in a most enjoyable way, looking up at the Shinigami from the grass. "Am not," he murmured in weak protest, while Shini followed him to his position, lying idly in a sleepy kingdom of grasses and budding wildflowers. The same blurry, sublime smile split his face gently as he crossed his arms on his husband's chest and rested his chin there, peering playfully down at him. He arched an eyebrow.

"Oh?" he drawled, shifting so his body lay lightly against Heero's, legs intertwined. In this illusion, he had shed the thick, black cloak and his divine wings stretched lazily. "Suddenly you are brave?"

"I am not afraid of fun," he protested drowsily again. "I'm _not_. Just let me—I'll show you I'm not"

"He believes you," Shini said with a laugh, watching Heero's stubbornness persist, even as he felt so languid and peaceful and his body refused to let him work itself up into stress. Leaning closer to his mortal husband's face, his hair, much better kept in this daydream, spilled out over his shoulder and formed a curtain around the one side of his face. "But are you still afraid of him?"

Heero sleepily tried to look stormy as he protested again, but only made the God of Death laugh again, rumbling through his body as he lay with his husband. "I'm not afraid of anything," he mumbled drowsily. "Except cept maybe being alone, being lonely like how he used to be."

"Then you're not afraid of much, are you?"

He shook his head enthusiastically, still frowning drowsily to prove his bravery.

Shini gazed lushly down in return; lips still tilted in a smirk. "Then why are you just lying there?" he whispered, unfolding his arms so that they rested to each side of his head, in the thick, summer grasses of the illusion lying around them. "Eh, _Heero_?"

The mortal suddenly felt the impulse to lean up, to meet that teasing smile and discover with his lips what was so amusing, and moved from underneath the Shinigami. But as soon as he did, Shini smirked, and took a step back—tearing the hypnotic illusion of a haven asunder and pulling all the edges of reality back into their usual, sharp relief. The mischievous look was practically beaming as Heero staggered a little, no longer believing he was lying in some secluded utopia but knowing he was standing in his darkroom, with the edge of the counter digging into the small of his back. He blinked more than twice, trying to regain his focus, trying to recall his level head and clear the haze of a freshly fading lust from his eyes. "Wha—?"

Shini smirked smugly, turning on his heel and heading out of the darkroom, tail twisting and flicking contentedly. "We should go get something to eat, Teishu. You look _famished_." He laughed, in conspiracy with himself.

It took a little more concentration than normal for Heero to regain his head so that could figure out what the hell had just happened.

* * *

AN: Sorry about the last post-something messed up while I was loading and all the commas and stuff were replaced by numbers and shit. Not really the grammatical effect I was going for. From here on in, this particular arc isn't all fun and games. Yeah, that's right. The fun part of every story, the climax. Well, as long as I don't end up writing another unplanned chapter (jeeze, that makes it sound like a pregancy, doesn't it?), we'll be getting into the meat of the first arc of MSMH. Man, ever chapter longer and longer still. Quite the draining habit of mine. Oh, well. I feel it's time for some changes. I'm not gonna care whether chapters go past quotas and I'm gonna cut my hair and listen to more KQ92. Anyway, I just realized that, aside from the cruel fact that it always snows during a weekend here in Wisconsin, never a school day, it's Kurt Cobain's birthday. It would have slipped my mind had I not dropped by Link Worshiper's site quick today. Does that make me a bad person? No, only swinging a golf club at my sister does... and yet I cannot stop. So, happy birthday, Kurt, and thank god if you don't have to swallow horsepills thrice daily, like I do. Sinus infections _suck_. Well, it's better than thinking I'm going deaf. Anywho, that's it, and ciao. 


	21. The Shrinks

Chapter 21

"The Shrinks"

In a teeming subway car of one of the most homogeneous nations of the world, it wasn't hard for any passerby to notice the tall blonde that stood literally head and shoulders above most of the crowd. Her fair, pale face rose above without competition. Neither was it too hard to spot the golden-colored hair amongst a flock of dark-haired men and women. She stood in the center of the mass of people, one hand clutching the rings that hung from the ceiling, though it swung at shoulder level for her instead of over her head. As the subway car rattled toward the next stop, the statuesque blonde timidly glanced around at the tops of the Japanese heads around her. She had to be careful not to bash her face into the advertisement posters that hung from the ceiling of the subway car, normally out of the way for the riders. It was rare that anyone as tall as the otherworld secretary ever ventured into the Tokyo subway and it was doubly rare that they'd be wearing stylish heels on top of that. She would have preferred a comfortable pair of sandals, but Hell if Iria would let any of her employees—especially such an esteemed one as Nadette—out in public unless they practically reeked of fashionableness.

That was a certain drawback to being employed to the Goddess of Love, she thought, while nervously shifting with bodies tightly packed on either side of her that remained eerily quiet. She was accustomed to the plush of Valentine, the constant background noise of conversation and flirtation, and even her superior's gossipy voice echoing in the phone. It was a sugarcoated place, even with the overbearing Iria at the helm. She was used to complying to the beckoning at Iria's every whim to organize her shoes, go shopping with her, and fetch her chocolates from the storeroom of sweets just across her office while she would leisurely reapply her lipstick. She was unaccustomed to the hustle and bustle most mortals thought nothing of, and the tall woman stood nervously in the pack. She could only hope she'd taken the right train. It was not an experience she wished to repeat.

* * *

Tokyo was never _not_ crowded, Heero had learned, but there was a certain lull to the frenetic masses after the noon hour that allowed the pair some breathing room and the mortal some space to keep the Shinigami out of his usual trouble. As was expected, Shini was the victim of many strange stares for his outlandish clothes and, not suprisingly, many admiring ones, too, for his naturally light hair and exotic violet eyes that radiated a certain charm. Luckily, he did not stop to chat with the small flocks of girls that could be seen and heard smiling and giggling as he passed, and Heero kept tugging him along by the wrist. Thankfully, he never wandered far for lunch and by the time they'd covered roughly a block, Heero tugged the Shinigami out of the stream and into his favorite café. It was sufficiently sandwiched between the other buildings flanking it, and it was narrow and high-ceilinged and simple.

It was an obvious knock off of the large, corporate American coffee companies, right down to the names on the menu, but it was nearby and cheap and empty. Juxtaposed to the noisy, inane pachinko palor across the street, it was sane and peaceful, though still as busy as any other part of Tokyo. It was the one of the calmest places you could see without taking a drive out to a shrine in the countryside and Heero craved it, though he never really had the gall to just up and leave the memories of his family buried in this city. He'd often dreamed of where'd they be had his father retired sooner and missed the insurrection, if they'd packed up and moved out of Tokyo.

_I probably wouldn't be here with Shinigami_, he thought, reminded of his company when he stepped inside behind Heero, and gaped at it in his usual fashion.

"It has definitely been a long time since he was between worlds," Shini murmured, marveling his first time inside any kind of modern shop. "This is much better than general stores!" A moment later, his wandering eyes picked out the narrow staircase that led up to a small second floor located near the large windows overlooking the crowded street and he tugged Heero's wrist. "Let's go up there!"

Heero made a show to sigh in his usual way, though he had to smirk a little that the Shinigami had picked out his regular seat, anyway. He gave a plain, "Alright," and followed the deity as he enthusiastically grinned and led the way up the stairs

Somewhere around the third or fourth step, reminded by the wafting smells in the air, and the sight of other people sitting at tables, eating politely, that Shini remembered something. It came upon him like news of cancer strikes young, healthy men and women, abruptly and heavily. It wasn't any kind of bad news, though, and Shini's smile was widening wickedly by the time they reach the top of the stairs. He happily hopped into the two-person table nearest the window and waited for Heero to catch up, sitting in the tall stool chair and playfully kicking the legs. He turned his grin out toward the window for a moment, as if trying to make the crowd realize just how jealous they were of him.

He was going to taste mortal food. And his mother would have no idea! His toes practically curled at the very thought. Shini turned that beaming smile of triumph over to his _Teishu_ as soon as he sat down and noticed the unusually broad grin.

"What?" he asked automatically.

"Nothing," Shini said, face still split from ear to ear. "So, when do we eat? He's starving!"

* * *

"Excuse me, excuse me. I'm sorry—excuse me." Nadette was still having difficulties adapting to the very distinctly chaotic human traffic of the city and the workings of the public transportation. After failing to locate her appropriate stop and ending up dumped into some corner of Shinjuku, she had ended up heading above ground and decided to try her hand at manual navigation of the city. The thick stream of people had not diminished at all, only gotten worse with the addition of vehicle traffic. She fumbled like a giraffe in her heels on the mortal sidewalk, often jarring into people and having to apologize. Even something as simple as walking was so dangerous in this world! She thought to herself with a mental huff. It was no wonder now why Iria had insisted on the Valentine realm for her office—a place with no hard dirt roads or concrete to interfere with heels.

The tall, blonde secretary moved and was moved by the current through the Tokyo sidewalks, forced to backtrack toward her destination because of her error on the subway. Again, she felt her hip accidentally buckle into the side of some young man when her heel disagreed with the uneven pavement, and her face went red. "I'm sorry, excuse me," she said from her position above the crowd. She felt a little like an Alice in a tiny house, but kept on walking. It was not professional to think that way. She knew that Miss Iria would be at her if she did not deliver the message she was given.

If a certain mortal had remembered to take a certain phone out of the pocket of his other pants, Iria could have simply called him and she would have been spared her embarrassment and discomfort. But, the secretary mused, she would have to have luck for that to happen.

She kept walking, kept bumping people, and squinting as she tried to decipher her way.

* * *

Heero, meanwhile, was watching his immortal husband wolf down the ice cream he'd ordered as if he had not eaten for centuries, or never tasted the stuff before. He suspected the latter, observing Shini's voracious attack on the unsuspecting bowl of ice cream, but too entranced by it to really think about it. His own lunch was only barely touched and probably getting cold. Shini's barely had time to be dazed before it would be devoured messily. He had descended on the unsuspecting bowl and seemingly gone ravenous at the mere sight of it. He'd used the spoon for a while, quickly went to simply eating out of the bowl while holding it to his face, and now ran his finger along the side, catching all the leftovers. Normally, Heero would have been mortified to be caught in public after such a display, but somehow this was just too amusing to put a stop to.

Shini had been so enthusiastic about wolfing down his strange meal that he'd given no thought to how messy he became in the process. His long ear tails were matted with traces of the chocolate syrup that had been put on top—the first victim—and the edges of his lips were smeared with melted ice cream. His nose was tipped in the stuff, from when he'd started licking at the bowl. He didn't tear his attention away to even look at his _Teishu_, let alone remember to take a breath. Once in a while, that would catch up with him, and he'd pause and rub at his nose, only really succeeding in smearing more across his cheekbones.

"It's not going to run away from you, Shinigami," Heero said eventually, a little smirk in his voice.

"_Hai_, _hai_—you going to eat that, Heero?" The deity looked up, still looking like he was half-made up in a clown's makeup. He waited for the answer anxiously and licked his chops. "If you are not going to eat, he will. No need to put it to waste! No, no, _Teishu_!"

He glanced down at his own plate. It looked a little disappointed it was being neglected, to tell the truth. Heero glanced back up to the Shinigami, and he stiffened up in anticipation, anxious. For a second, he licked his lips again, catching a bit of the ice cream smeared across his face. Heero hesitated to answer. The words had momentarily scattered away and his mouth was opening but nothing could be said.

"If you are not hungry, don't let it go to waste," Shini insisted again, eyeing the lunch hungrily. Eyeing it as if it were the first meal he had seen in years of wandering and foraging through a desert.

"I guess you can have some," Heero managed out. He was still slightly distracted by the movement of the Shinigami's tongue over his lips, unable to get all the sugary stuff off the edges of his mouth. Perhaps he didn't realize that his whole face was a similar sight. "But not too much. I still have to eat, you know."

"Well, you do not act hungry! You know what you mortals say." He snatched up a fork happily and went at snatching part of his husband's food off his plate, jabbing at it as if it, too, were going to scamper away. "You snooze and you loose!" Successful, he stuffed the morsel in his mouth and grinned lazily around it. A second after he'd finished practically inhaling it, he sat back with a contented look and savored the flavor of it in his mouth. Mortal food had such a rich, vibrant taste to it, so tangible—and different! Every bite was different and wonderful in contrast! He did not know why he had not gone against the rules and stolen a bite before today, but he was glad he had gotten away with it now.

He leaned back, licking his chops again like a satisfied dog, and hiccuped.

Heero lifted an eyebrow, picking up his own fork and poking at the plate now that a good portion had been stolen away. "Are you full now? Surely your third bowl of ice cream has to be enough. Or are you part bottomless-pit?"

"It'll never be enough," Shini murmured dreamily, gloating. A moment later, he casually hiccuped again and giggled dazedly at it.

"I'm cutting you off. You've had enough, and I'm only treating you to it because I know you might not be returning to Earth for a while after this," the mortal said, more to himself than to the Shinigami, who was too far off in his food contentment to pay much attention. He was reveling on how his stomach actually _felt_ full, not just seemed to be satisfactorily fed. "Shini? Are you listening?" But there was no response, or real reaction from the happily dazed deity.

Another hiccup and Shini was already in the process of swearing to himself that he'd never have another meal of ambrosia again.

Roughly a block away from the window overlooking the crowed Tokyo street, where a mortal and a Divine sat, the Goddess of Love's secretary was still struggling her way through the crowds on her stiletto heels.

At the same time, Heero was finally ready to see that the Shinigami clean himself up properly, not resort to licking his fingers clean after he'd wiped him over his mouth. He automatically gave out a whine but Heero pointed out the door leading to the bathroom, just down the steps, and told him to go look and see for himself how ridiculous he looked. Heero would have compared him to a three-year-old kid scarfing down a rapidly melting ice cream cone, but doubted Shini would have understood, never having been a three-year-old mortal at any time.

The Angel of Death offered him an almost disgruntled look at the order, but dutifully stepped off the stool and went towards the chair. He hiccuped cutely as he walked, licking his fingers clean of the ice cream anyway, and got a few odd looks as he passed. Blissful and stomach filled, Shini strolled into the mortal bathroom and smacked his lips as he walked. Heero tried to refocus and idly poked at his food with his fork but couldn't get the Shinigami licking his lips fully out of his head.

Outside the window, a tall blonde woman hesitated on the sidewalk, staring up and recognizing the man on the other side of the glass. She gasped a little, then hurriedly tried to push her way through the stream of people to cut toward the door of the café. Her voice could be heard issuing apologizes as she clumsily navigated her way there on a precarious pair of shoes. She rushed to open the door and realized with a little dread that the air was thick with the smell of food. Rich, savory mortal food.

Without bothering with the waitress who noticed her and tried to politely offer her a seat, she went up the stairs.

In the bathroom, Shini was giggling happily as he looked in the mirror. He was laughing both at the warm, fulfilled sensation in his stomach that made him want to curl up for a nice year-long nap and the interesting pattern of ice cream smeared across his face. Looking almost like he was intoxicated on the stuff, he hiccuped again, then giggled. And again.

* * *

Heero turned to see that someone was coming up the stairs in somewhat of a rush with a mouth full of rice and almost immediately registered that she was not of this world. The vibrantly blonde hair seemed a dead give away that she was not native to anywhere near Tokyo, but there was also a certain impossible beauty and indescribable quality to her also that set her apart from the rest of the mortal race. Heero supposed that that definitive charm about her was just her unearthly aura and noticed that his sense for it had gotten dramatically better since the whole ordeal had started. Staying with a God of Death just might sharpen one's sense for divinity. In any matter, he registered her as some kind of immortal creature and automatically his stomach left him a little.

In his experience, a Divine showing up on his doorstep was an invitation for trouble and it always found a way to sniff him out lately. So, it wasn't surprising he didn't have a very welcoming expression when the woman arrived at his table, a little out of breath from negotiating her way on her high heels. And why was such a tall woman wearing them in the first place? Heero thought with a skeptical expression.

She stopped and glanced over to the empty chair where the Shinigami had been a few minutes ago. Her eyes were an unnaturally bright shade of light blue and she carried herself in an effortlessly graceful way—definitely a Divine. She looked back to the emptied bowls sitting across from Heero and then up to him. The face she wore was becoming increasingly anxious when she asked, "You didn't let him eat, did you?"

Heero didn't notice the question; he was too busy trying to figure out if there was more trouble in store for him and squinting at her. "And just who are you?"

"I'm Miss Iria's secretary," she answered humbly, twisting her head around to look for the missing deity and still a little winded by her rush up the stairs. By now, Heero had recognized her voice as the one on the cellphone that the Goddess of Love had given him and was less doubtful of the tall blonde woman. But he still didn't understand why she was so uneasy, and he suddenly didn't really want to.

"She asked me to come to deliver you a message. She forgot to tell you about the house rules when she first put you in charge of the Thirteenth Son—now, where he is?"

"In the bathroom, cleaning up," Heero grunted, still squinting at her halfway and chewing his lunch. "Why?"

Nadette turned to face him again, a little flustered. Her eyes fell again on the empty bowls and she did not answer him. "Are those yours?"

"No," he replied plainly. "—What message?"

He could see her bright eyes filling with a little dreadful anticipation behind her dark cat-eye glasses when she turned to him again. "You did not let him eat anything, did you?"

Heero stopped chewing this time, taking in the full effect of that question's implications. And none of it was very positive or reaffirming. Not in the least. Holding the fork cautiously, he swallowed slowly and blinked once up at the secretary. "Is there a reason I shouldn't have?" he asked, knowing too horribly that there had been. He suddenly shared that dread with the secretary standing before him and they exchanged a moment of horrible silence, not moving.

* * *

"Heh—hic—heh, heh."

The Shinigami giggled through the intermittent visits of the hiccups as he stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, oblivious to whether he was alone or not. Hell, he would be oblivious if his mother stormed in and started screaming in his ear by now.

Infatuated with the sensation of a full stomach, Shini snickered at his reflection, gloating in the mortal revelry of food. He laughed, hiccuped again, and playfully ran his fingers over the mirror. He pretended to wipe away the melted ice cream from his face and hiccuped again. It was only a brief lapse in his laughter, though. Suddenly, everything seemed much more comical. He laughed at his reflection, still dirty as he ran his hand over it, and laughed at feeling so wonderful.

The Divines—the gods, the angels, the demons, and other things that "go bump in the night"—were created with abilities and endowments that mortals could only dream, wish, and fantasize about. They became the legendary figures of their lore, their mythology, and they thrived on planes and in wars and in glory that men and women were sure they could not truly understand. And some of it was true, and some of it wasn't. But Divines were not made inherently better than their short-lived siblings, otherwise what reason would there be for their existence but to be inferior to be those of the perfect mold? Divines did not feel the sunlight as radiantly, did not feel passion as strongly, did not enjoy the world as intimately and boisterously as mortals. They lived longer, were stronger, faster and sometimes wiser, but it was a less ardent life. Love was less startling, lust more easily sated, depression waning, warmth less comforting by comparison, and the physical world a shade paler. They could not even feel the weight of food resting in their bellies as mortals did, and it was one of their forbidden fruits of sorts.

For Shinigami, this was twice as strict. Of all the Divines, they were one of the most naturally unemotional and void of most traces of anything resembling mortal emotion. And Shini had violated it and stood grinning in front of the mirror, dumbly satisfied with the sensation.

Not noticing that a man had walked out of one of the stalls, he hummed and rubbed and patted his full stomach. He yawned a second later and midway through was struck with another hiccup. The man washing his hands in the next sink ran his eyes over the Shinigami's strange clothing and then his strange behavior. Of course, that wasn't even mentioning the fact he had ice cream smeared across his face and it was melting and dripping. When he left, the seeming young man was still poised at the sink, grinning madly at his reflection.

"Kids today," he grumbled to himself. "They get stranger with every generation. Worse, I tell you." He was wringing his hand out of absent habit when he pushed the door open and nearly was knocked over by the other young man rushing into the bathroom. They both took an automatic step back, and the older man saw the scowl on the younger's face just before he apologized under his breath and brushed by. Standing in the hallway near the door was an incredibly tall, foreign looking woman who timidly smiled at the man and went around him into the men's bathroom as well. He tried to spin around with his badly aging body to see her disappear in, but he only saw the door as it swung close.

He stopped to shake his head, but in the end just turned and went back to minding his own business.

"Shinigami?"

Heero's voice faltered a little, uncertain of what he should expect. The secretary carefully tailing him had not told him yet what he had done, but he could guess it was nothing good. Instead of seeing all of Hell spewing up behind his husband, he was only standing at the sink, giggling. Giggling like he was intoxicated. He turned and looked at Heero but his eyes were clouded and utterly gratified.

"Oh, _Teishu_," he almost slurred, trying to talk through the perpetual grin. He was holding onto the sides of the sink and it seemed to be help keeping him up. "You need to clean up, too? You look fine to him. _Oi_, why not order some more food while your up, _ne_? He'll want some more for later."

"What the hell happened to you?" Heero asked, stepping forward. "You look like you're absolutely stoned or something!"

The Shinigami laughed and swayed accidentally into his husband when he tried to playfully jab him in the shoulder. "What are you talking about? You're always trying to ruin the fun, aren't you? Aren't you hungry?" He stopped his giggling for a moment to put that hand on his forehead. "You're not sick, are you? He must get some food into you, then. It's good for you!" The laughter fit returned and he buckled a little against his shoulder.

The doubtful scowl was turning into authentic worry. This was already not looking good. "Shini—"

Suddenly, he hiccuped again and Nadette gasped behind them. She covered her mouth timidly and Heero turned his head to look at her fearful expression. "This is not good, this is not good," she groaned, shaking her head as Shini only continued to giggle on.

"What? What's not good?" Heero demanded.

But that question would remain unanswered for another minute, as the Shinigami hiccuped once more; this time louder, sharper. His blissful smile returned for another split second and Heero momentarily hoped that whatever it was would just pass uneventfully. But he really knew it would never be that simple, would it? Moments after the last hiccup, the Shinigami sneezed suddenly, so violently that his wings erupted from his back, ripping from their hiding place and out into the open air. Heero froze and Iria's secretary let out another unhappy groan.

Shini straightened up and began rubbing at his nose as he sniffled, smearing the tip of ice cream across it.

"He's got the Shrinks," Nadette said, still shaking her head. "No, no, this is not good. This is not good at all."

By now, Heero was a little tired of being unanswered to every question he posed, and he thought they were very relevant ones, seeing how he had no way of knowing these obviously Divine things. He squinted unhappily. "The Shrinks? Would you care to tell me just the hell that is?"

A second later the broad wingspan of the Shinigami, standing close to his husband with a sated expression and rubbing his filled stomach, abruptly shrunk to half their size and a little scattering of dislodged feathers floated to the floor. Then Shini's expression changed to that of an achy discomfort as the bones physically dwindled and he frowned in a bit of a daze, his face yet decorated with melting ice cream. "Ouch."

* * *

A/N: Am I kicking these out or what? Hah, I actually got one out within ten days! Anyway, it should get a little easier to write from here on, a little faster maybe. I can't wait to finish this first arc, then I can start other big projects, and all that. And after that, we can get to the real fun of My Shini, My Hamburger. Ciao, then. 


	22. Take Me to Knockoff Alley

Chapter 22

"Take Me to Knock-Off Alley"

The Shinigami sat pouting to himself uncomfortably on the couch, his neck twisted constantly so that he could look over his shoulder at his quickly diminishing wingspan. Occasionally, you could hear him whine or open his mouth to complain about the unpleasant sensation of his bones withering away to half their size, nearing a fourth. The silky black flight feathers had long fallen to the floor, much too large to be supported by wings that were growing smaller and smaller. There was a trail of them scattered over the floor through the house of one Heero Yuy, caretaker and husband to that Shinigami. Currently, he stood in the living room, giving the Divine secretary also standing there the aggravated stare of her life. Even though he had to stare up to meet her eyes, it was such a withering look of vexation Nadette felt mere inches tall beneath it.

"Now, _please_," he ground out, "can you tell me just what the hell is going on here?"

Sure, he knew he was being impatient; he could acknowledge the unwelcoming sharpness to his tone, feel the scowl spread across his face. He'd been forced to rush the hiccuping Shinigami out of the restaurant—without paying, mind you—leave work early, and now he was probably looking at a new phase of unemployment for it. As soon as he'd been given a second chance, he'd blown it to hell. His supervisor occasionally displayed a streak of kindness, but he withdrew it as soon as he felt it was trampled on it. And no doubt, Takamura most likely assumed that he'd taken off with the bizarre husband he'd picked up in America and was canoodling around town with him somewhere. No matter how reliable Heero had been in the past, he was just not the man who could readily believe in the inherent goodness of people. His trust was probably sufficiently violated.

All of this was not adding up to a happy mortal at all, and his face reflected it. Nadette stood in the living room almost awkwardly, opening her mouth to inform the unhappy young man what supernatural affliction was upon them. "I came to warn you not to feed Shinigami any mortal food. Iria failed to mention it as a house rule. The Shrinks is a metaphysical disease," she started, a little uncertain of what to tell Heero, lest she rile him more. She wondered more and more why Iria had known of his temper, and overlooked it nonetheless. "Only Shinigami can get it, I think. When they violate the Divine rules and ingest mortal food, it will effect them immediately. Most cannot physically digest mortal food, and only the very oldest are immune to it. Most are wise enough not to touch it."

Behind them, sequestered onto the couch in uneasy silence, the Shinigami let out another hiccup. He clapped his hands over his mouth uselessly, as if it could stop them from coming. As if it changed what he'd done, and what he'd suffered because of it. The mortal and the secretary stood in counsel, and Heero turned his head to glance at him. He hiccuped again, beneath his hands, and his expression was worsening. He was starting to realize that he'd really done something now, and he looked to his arranged husband almost imploringly. Heero hesitated, and offered him an unsure smile of reassurance, not familiar with the gesture. Shini showed his appreciation for it in a hint of a week smile, and Heero turned back when Nadette continued explaining. She was still in the bad habit of wringing her hands.

"The first symptoms is excessive hiccuping, and immediately after that the wings will become nearly a sixteenth of their normal size. In the second stage, he'll start loosing his balance and he'll start hiccuping toxic bubbles for an hour or so, until the third stage. Then he'll be too weak to stand on his own and most likely get a very high fever. Either way, his tail will start catching fire and there's a chance he'll loose it." By now, it had even begun to seep into Nadette how much trouble they were in, and she started averting her eyes when Heero looked more and more alarmed with the symptoms she listed. "In the final stages, there will be uncontrollable fainting and teleporting. He may even get the Drains, when all the Darkness will leave him, and he'll be completely vulnerable, even to mortal diseases like common colds or influenza.

"The Shrinks is normally harmless to Shinigami if cured within a reasonable time, but for younger ones, like Shini—" The blonde hesitated, trying to choose her wording carefully. "—It could take his life within a few days if we don't do anything about it."

Aforementioned deity groaned unhappily on the couch, but it was cut off by another hiccup. His wings were slowly fading away, becoming smaller and smaller almost in a comic way. It would have been much funnier to Heero if he wasn't already so stressed out.

His brows furrowed in concentration. "But he's immortal, isn't he? How can he die?"

"If a Divine lives a perfectly safe life, then he could live forever, but that doesn't mean he can't be destroyed by disease or be killed." Nadette looked over to the Shinigami with concern behind her cat-eye glasses. She'd hardly been acquainted with him. Her supervisor had kept her personal life with her son and her professional' one, lounging in an office, separated. Both of them played second fiddle to her own self-absorption, anyway. "We need to cure him as soon as possible. There's no way to tell how fast it'll progress."

"Yeah," he said. "And besides, Iria will have my head on a stick if she finds out."

"He needs to have a meal of amrita to cure him of the Shrinks. It's a drink that grants immortality and he must drink it to purge him of his mortal infection," Nadette told him. "Otherwise he can't recover."

The mortal squinted suspiciously. "But we can't just go to the store and get that stuff, I'm guessing."

"No, it's only—"

Shini let out a pitiful whine and dropped his hands from his mouth. "He feels sick, _Teishu_—_hic_. He's never been sick before. He doesn't like it—_hic_—at all."

Nadette stiffened up when he let out the very unhappy noise after his words and started blinking rapidly, trying to hold back the abrupt fear he'd been struck with. She apparently was even less acquainted with displaying comfort or affection and almost looked frightened by the sound when Shini gritted his teeth and held back a sob. Heero wondered for a second if that had been him at one time or another, if he'd really been fearful of such an innocent being. But one thing was for sure, and that was his inability to sit back and watch someone cry. It was his weakness if he had ever acknowledged having one. It was why he was in this whole predicament in the first place.

He glanced once again at the secretary and knew she wasn't going to move. He crouched down at the couch so that he could look the Shinigami in the eye and saw him watering up and doing his best not to be overwhelmed and cry. The end of his tail was clenched tightly in his hand, and the other one was clapped tightly over his mouth. He started hiccuping again, though it seemed this time from trying to stop crying. He watched Heero, eyes reddened.

The mortal felt his face softening up inevitably and he tried his best to look reassuring. "You'll get better. Don't worry about it and just get some rest."

Shini sniffled and mewled through his hand, "He's sorry—he shouldn't have broken _Okasan_'s rules, he knew she said not to—_hic_!"

"No, you probably shouldn't have," Heero agreed. "But you did. You can't go back and change that. I'll make sure you get better, alright? It's not your fault; it's just a mistake. You didn't know that this would happen, right?"

He shook his head enthusiastically behind his hand. Heero smiled a little, and reached up to pull his hand gently away from his face and let it fall into his lap before putting his own comfortingly on the back of his head. The deity sniffled loudly and looked at his arranged husband with blood-shot eyes. It made the violet of his irises even more vibrant.

"Are you going to be okay without me for a while?" He scratched his head a little and Shini nodded, letting his tail free of his own deathgrip. Heero gave him a final smile and stood back up to continue his council with Aphrodite's secretary.

"Now, what were you saying?"

"There's no place to get amrita on Earth. You'll need to take a certain path to a shallow underworld just beneath Tokyo where they can sell it to you," she explained, readjusting her glasses once nervously. "Even then, they probably won't believe you if you explain to them. No one just hands anything over to a mortal. Amrita is a very potent substance and can be dangerous in careless hands. So you'll need to take one of Shinigami's feathers as identification."

Heero waved a hand abruptly. "Hold on, hold on. What do you mean, _I'll_ have to?' "

The secretary smiled nervously. "You're the only one who can—I can't do it."

"You're a Divine, aren't you? Why don't you go?" he asked. Unfortunately, Nadette was noticing that his temper returned soon after his attention was not focused on the young Shinigami and his impatience was not unaccounted for, either. "I'm not going alone."

"Oh no, no, I couldn't! It's far too dangerous for me," she admitted quietly. "I've barely been out of Valentine, I wouldn't know what to do if I were threatened. There's Demons and Dead Souls down there in that Black Market, things far too powerful for me to handle."

Heero's blue eyes were taking up their fire again and had it at the ready again, arching an eyebrow at the tall blonde. "But you assume that_ I _can?" he ground out.

"Wait—" Shini squeaked out, his throat getting sore from the continual hiccuping and afflicted churning of his stomach, no longer feeling as glorious as it once had. "Don't make _Teishu_ go if he doesn't want to. He can do it himself, he swears! He's really fine." The Angel of Death attempted climbing to his feet to illustrate this point, but barely made it to his feet before he was struck with a particularly arresting hiccup, staggered, lost his balance, and swooned back into the cushions. At the same time, his wings gave another sudden shudder and dwindled to a ridiculous size on his back. He groaned as he kept a hand over his mouth, feeling the dull but unpleasant sensation of bones shrinking away.

"I said that I'll do it," he told Shini immediately, pinning an inflexible look on him. "You just lay down until I get back and don't try to move." Surprisingly, the deity complied silently and was more than happy to rest his dizzy head on the pillow at the end of the couch and curl up, closing his eyes tightly. He groaned, hiccuped, and his wings twitched a size smaller.

Nadette was mildly surprised, as well, that Heero had changed his mind so abruptly and turned to her. "Stay here with him and make sure he doesn't try to walk around or anything. Watch him. There's extra blankets in the guestroom closet if he needs them. He'll probably figure out a way to get bored, too, so there's a deck of cards in the kitchen. He'll know where they are." He sighed to himself, contradicting the firm voice he used a little. The puff of breath teased at the bangs over his forehead and he ran his hand through them once. "Now, tell me where I have to go."

* * *

The walls of this particular alley, which was no one in particular or of any special interest, seemed to be constantly coming closer than they had appeared to the moment before, like the bodies of mammoth animals coming close to whisper a secret in their slow rendezvous. From these close skins there had been carved doorways to shops that had never truly seen the sun, never even been opened. There were traffic signs for a nonexistent flow, there were light poles that extended past the canopy of the buildings and almost went on forever, there were industrial lights hung over doorways, soon to glare like alien discs in the night. Running a silent, vigilant rows down the walls were decorative traditional paper lanterns, dull and dimly round in the hazy Tokyo light of that day. They waited. They sulked, anticipating their glow in the coming night. Heero could imagine how subtly sinister they might appear, alone—like they were grinning softly at you as you passed. Laughing because whoever came down this pitiful turn?

But thankfully, it was still far from twilight and the havoc they might reek on his imagination in the night. The sky itself in this cramped place seemed almost to be a close ceiling. It seemed to be following you, even when you turned around and watched it. Heero had twisted his head on more than one occasion, getting an inevitable sensation that the mammoth animals might have closed in behind him. Nadette's instructions had brought him to a far and away corner of town, littered with old housing developments and a very sleepy neighborhood. Since the construction on the colonies in outer space had begun, the childish rumors that the inhabitants had been whisked away by the angry gods, who were upset that men would leave the beauty of Earth that they had created for them. Any events occurring near the area were swarming with superstitions and often became washed with absurdity. Heero had never paid attention to urban legends in the first place, and he was not going to be converted now by sleeping lanterns.

He moved quickly, passed shops that glowed faintly, but bore no signs of life. Somewhere far down the alley in the green blue wash of the distant lights a bicyclist would sometimes cross into an adjacent alley or a cat would mewl. As he walked toward the end of the alleyway that would seemingly never end, like a horrible hallway in a labyrinth, he was having trouble convincing himself that the walls were _not _coming together. The pitted blacktop path was seemingly growing narrower and narrower. It did not seem right, and even the sounds of Tokyo bustling were muted and awfully distant in this tight space.

He kept a piece of paper in his hand as he went, scribbled quickly on by the secretary who'd sent him. He hesitated after he'd walked down the alley for much longer than what felt right and consulted the crumpled piece of paper. Squinting at it in the misty grey shadow of his alley, Heero frowned and tried to find this strange address. There were no numbers on the doors, no way to know exactly where to find this "444" 1 that would lead him to a pocket universe that simmered under the busy Tokyo streets. There he should be able to find the divine amrita, which would cure the ailing Son of Shinigami that lay on his couch in his house, clenching his teeth and mumbling unhappily as his wings shrunk.

Heero wondered for a moment how Shini was faring without him. He wondered if his nature already found away around illness and straight back into his old mischief. No, he hadn't been his usual youthful self. A more probable image came to mind as the mortal walked, one of the Shinigami holding a pillow against his churning stomach and calling out pitifully for his _Teishu_.

That thought settled heavily in his stomach. The mortality of a god was resting on his shoulders (and if he went, Heero wouldn't be too far behind himself) and it hinged on being able to find the doorway that led to a Black Market supposedly seething beneath Tokyo. It wasn't as though he didn't believe it—he'd be a fool to doubt the existence of the supernatural, when it'd been right in his face and trying to sneak into his bed at times.

Somewhere past a boxed up and abandoned shop, another of the hundred anonymous ones he'd passed, there was a tiny plain door way in the left wall, followed by a clean expanse of three feet of cement. It was undecorated, and even the long line of illuminating lanterns skipped over the squat doorframe. The simple cadet blue paint was hazy and hardly noticeable in the cloudy light. There was a single tack in the center of the door, one without a knob, he noticed. And hanging from that lonely tack was a string, from which in turn hung a square slice of unmarked cardboard. Heero stopped immediately when he noticed the black cat sitting statue-still across the narrow alleyway from this door, sinisterly watching him.

The emotionless green eyes watched him like cold stone. It was perfectly unnerving. Heero momentarily suspected that it was trying to pry into his mind with its stare, when the guardian cat strolled toward the door, placing itself firmly between the mortal and the door. Then it curled up on the ground, laid its chin on its crossed paws, and promptly took a nap. This cat seemed self-assured that it was more than enough security for this unmarked door.

The air seemed to be still and thick with an ominous feeling, amplified by the guardian's casual assertion of control, and Heero stepped right over that sleeping cat a second later. It bolted up, twisting with a yowl of indignant surprise. It tried to claw his leg as he went passed but Heero ignored it and the cat was forced to get to his feet and chase after the intruder. This had to be the place, the mortal thought to himself, noting how enthusiastic this obviously unearthly creature was to make sure he didn't find the right doorway. It was pawing sharply at his heel when he raised his hand to push the door, hoping it would open even without a knob.

It did, in a way, and in a way, it didn't. His hand went straight through the illusion of a door and the change of dimensions was enough to help drag him forward with momentum and he tripped into the doorway.

It became instantly different. There was noise in a dozen assorted languages, many of which where not originally from the mortal world. There was a thick, heated, aromatic air that boiled and crowded overhead, teeming with sounds of foods being cooked in other worldly skillets. Loud, ogre-like voices advertised loudly, booming in foreign tongues and impossible animals squawked and bellowed. Heero lifted his head from the dirt floor, spit the stuff off his lips, and pushed himself off the ground. Then he could see the difference, as well as hear and smell it as it threatened to overwhelm his senses. He sat on the mounded rim of an immense bazaar, completely contained beneath Tokyo. There were shops narrowly forced together that stretched in irregular lines for much further than his eye could see. The air was dusty gold, and from the mortal-looking stands creatures and other mythical things poked their heads, bargaining loudly, exchanging gold, and slapping things like caged harpies and otherworldly robes into customers' hands. Bronze birds flittered overhead, blood red cobras slithered underfoot, and from every possible corner another voice was extolling sales.

Heero felt his jaw slacken a little. He was just beginning to grasp just how much went unnoticed by the mortal eye and how unusual it was that anyone like himself would ever see it, let alone know it was there. It helped him realize the fact that Shini _wasn't _normal at all even more. In turn, that amplified the fact that he was in serious need and Heero got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his knees.

Abruptly there was a thick shadow hanging over his head and a hefty set of nostrils heaving breath through his hair. He saw the large clawed foot out of the corner of his eye, before he straightened up slowly, coming face to face with an ugly grey _oni_, the Japanese villainous ogre of myth. His crusty, surly eyes settled on him sharply, tapping that aforementioned bulky foot on the dirt so that it puffed into the air impatiently. As Heero straightened out fully, he frowned up at the looming creature, which had a good three or four feet on him. He was a massive, unattractive thing and he looked very displeased with him.

"What're you doing here? Get out, human!" He commanded in broken mortal tongue. "No place for your kind!"

Surprisingly, the massive creature did not immediately force him out, as he had expected him to do so, toss him easily out on to the cement with the muscles on his arm that were as wide as Heero himself. He simply sidled over to put itself between the intruding mortal and the expanse of shops below them in the dusty golden valley that hid beneath the city. Heero's face was set into its usual outward show—a tiny, disgruntled frown that promised it could and would turn sour with provocation. So far, he'd found it.

"No place! Get out now!" came the forceful grunt. And along with it, a large, heavy hand turning him around by his shoulder as if he were no more than a wooden doll that'd fallen out of place. "Get, I said!"

Heero sidestepped the _oni_'s hand and stood his ground firmly. "I just need one thing, then I'll leave. I promise."

The monster lifted the ugly hand and made an ugly face at it, disbelieving. Then he growled and slapped his hand back down on the breakable mortal shoulder. "No, out now. You can't be here, so move it." When the young man repeated the motion again, easily finding away out of the oafish grip, the brute let out a frustrated bark and whirled heavily to glare down at Heero, standing firmly off to the side. The face was ugly, yes—but it did not scare Heero Yuy anymore. He'd seen Death, and it'd been a young, frightened, impressionable child. There was not a lot left to fear anymore once you'd unmasked that.

"Listen, I don't want to be here. I'll be more than happy to leave," he said matter-of-factly, "but not until I've gotten what I've come to get."

The _oni_ growled and swung an arm at him, jabbing at the door. "Get going now," he threatened in broken English, "Or I will break heads. Yours will be first!"

"No, I'm not done. Tell me where I can find some amrita and I'll be glad to leave this whole place alone. It smells, anyway," he asserted, with blue eyes that did not give an inch in the face of dumb brute strength and mulishness.

"No mortals! That's the rule," he thundered back, again swinging his great arm. He would just not learn that Heero was quick enough to simply move away before he could be struck down and he grew more and more frustrated when he continued to do so, starting a little dance between _oni_ and mortal. He swung again and again. "Stay still, you lowly cur! And get out!" To Heero's back was the dirt walls that encased the entire bazaar, which never took notice to the guard and the intruding mortal at the entrance, and the brute's fist bashed into it as he missed the young man's head by little. Dust and pebbles rained down onto the dirt floor, scattered with hoof, claw, and footprints of all shapes and sizes.

"I have proof. I was ordered to come here. Normally I'd never set foot in a place like this," Heero droned impatiently, still circling as the ogre refused to let him by in peace. Now, the creature had little idea anymore whether he was truly getting mad at the fact he wanted to intrude, or that he kept insulting the market he'd worked for his entire existence.

"Ha!" he scoffed loudly. "You do not!"

Heero calmly reached into his back pocket and pulled out one of the Shinigami's jet-black flight feathers, pristinely unruffled and gleaming eerily. He knew that the ugly _oni_ would be able to sense its Divine source, perhaps even recognize its Deathly origin, and he was right. The brute hesitated to lift his heavy arm to strike again and squinted with his ugly eyes at what the mortal held. A moment later, they flared a little with realization, but his face hardened with disbelief after that.

"So what? You cannot be here, no matter what you have stolen from a god!" he accused throatily, feeling victorious in thinking he'd outwitted the mortal he could not strike. "Get out, or I will make you!"

"I didn't steal anything," Heero growled back. He was beginning to think mortals couldn't get a scrap of respect from anyone these days. "And no, I won't leave until I've gotten what I came for."

The ugly thing took a final, double-fisted swing at the smaller mortal and for a moment, Heero could not find his feet and it was enough to be caught by the large, balled hands. He still clutched the feather in his hand when he flinched and flung his hands up to catch the blow, slipping out of the path of one of the ogre's hands and wrapping his hands around his thick wrist. He could judge from the weight and momentum that he'd be unable to hold him back and get a hard hit to the head, but abruptly, the _oni_ jerked his heavy arm away as fast he could. Heero lifted his head and opened an eye cautiously, then both, and watched the brute shake his hand a little. Mystified, the mortal frowned, while his fingertips felt unnaturally cold and almost empty.

The creature rubbed his sore hand a little, then begrudgingly grunted and relented. "You say you have proof?" As he rubbed his skin, Heero could see wisps of black coming off it. It smelled suspiciously like Darkness, but how would he have—?

The mortal shook it off and presented the feather again, still perfectly unruffled.

"Fine. He will get you what you want. Just don't move. You are not to be here at all. I will take the blame, you understand? Do not move and do not touch."

Heero had to smirk a little at the way he was being warned to behave. "Don't worry. I'm not my husband," he told the _oni_ cryptically before he told the beast he needed a bottle of amrita and the thing lumbered off dumbly, but reliably, into the pulse of the bazaar, moving amongst similar unearthly creatures. Heero watched him lumber to the nearest cluster of stands and move lumbering between them, his ugly eyes squinting at the items. He stood near a collection of bottles, so he didn't worry about that for a moment, and instead lifted his hands up and curled his fingers as they warmed up again. He suddenly had to think of ice cream and the night rendezvous on the roof of his house. He stood and waited, and wondered if maybe he had—?

No, he told himself. Just worry about getting home before there's more trouble. And lucky him, he would be more right than he knew about that, while the Shinigami lay sprawled out on his couch, sniffling and hiccuping, wings shrinking all the while.

* * *

1 4' in Japanese also is the word for death, so it's the equivalent of the Western unlucky 13. It's also like the 666 of the devil. Other Japanese superstitions; always hide your thumb when a funeral car passes, never lie down immediately after a meal or you'll be turned into swine, and don't clip your nails in bed or you'll be bitten by a snake or you won't be with your parents when they die or something like that. Kind of harsh punishment for a minor offense, don't you think?

* * *

A/N: Well, this one not so quick, eh? But the plot's buliding up, so that's a good thing, right? The chapter title is a play on the Knockturn Alley from Rowling's Harry Potter books, which basically sparked the whole idea. See, I'm not too dramatic to be tongue-in-cheek sometimes. Anyway, I feel really bad leaving poor little Shini alone, because I know that he's definitely not going to be safe and sound, but you'll have to wait 'till I finish the next chapter to find out. And you know what? I've gypped Heero in all of my other AU fics and he's never gotten any special abilities, so I've given him a little taste of it. Well, I'd better shudyap before I go on and say something to spoil it. Getting closer to the end of the first arc! 


	23. Romper La Muerte

Chapter 23

"Romper La Muerte"

"Don't tell her, please don't tell her!" The pillow clamped over the whimpering deity's head muffled the whine, and he only buried his face deeper as the grief settled in on top of his back, where his wings still shrunk slowly. He groaned pitifully, through the secretary was not likely to comfort him no matter how pathetic noise he could produce. In fact, in the short time the mortal had been gone, he'd only succeeded in scaring her to sit stiffly in the armchair clear across the room, daintily crossing her legs. With each whimper he gave off, she twittered nervously with hands, trying to keep them calmly folded in her lap but obviously failing. She was obviously nervous; she wasn't sure if the Shrinks was completely not contagious, and who knew how cleanly this mortal home was, anyway? Opportunities for illness crept around her in the strange mortal world and made her crave the safety of her secretary's desk in lush, red Valentine.

The Shinigami was curled up on the couch where Heero had left him, only now he'd gone to burrowing his face deep into the cushions. He'd taken the nearest pillow and pulled it over his head with both hands, as if trying to squeeze out the ailment physically. As he dreaded out loud, his tail whipped and twisted in anxiety near his feet. "Do not let her know—_Okasan_ told him so many times not to eat anything!"

Nadette, still fidgeting her fingers while nervousness built up in her body, just shook her head compliantly. "No, of course I won't," she promised quietly.

The ailing Angel of Death sat bolt up on the couch suddenly, still with both hands clenched around the edges of the old pillow, pulling it around his head like a ridiculous bonnet. He looked at her and she flinched almost to see that his puffy eyes were turning an ethereal bluish-violet, flushing with immortal blue blood known more formally as _ichor_.

Now his wings were nearing their final, absurd miniaturization and they were no longer than the entire length of his forearm, and still shrinking. The sounds of the bones dwindling supernaturally could be heard sometimes, as a joint made an abrupt transition. Only the tiniest down feathers remained clinging to the bone, as flimsy as air, and around him laid whirlwind patterns of glossy black feathers from when they had simply fallen to the floor. When he choked back another troubling hiccup and sob, Shini abruptly fisted his hand around the pillow and flopped it down in frustration on the couch.

His mouth twisted into a dramatic display of dread. Apparently, from his following wailing, he had not heard the secretary's response. "Oh, he will not see the light of day for years to come!" One finger twirled his long ear tail anxiously. "If she knows, _Okasan_ will surely dig a hole, hit him over the head, and bury him in it for being so stupid!" To punctuate the grievous nature of his fate, he laid a punch into the pillow and then tossed it over the arm of the couch to symbolize being tossed away by his self-absorbed and quick-tempered mother.

"No, no, I'm sure she wouldn't—" Nadette assured him, more unnerved by his dramatic display. For a moment, she regretted allowing herself to stay back with the ailing deity—ogres and demons of the underground could be depended upon to be generally, dumbly nasty, but the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami was anything but predicable and could be counted on to cause a dilemma wherever he went in more cases than not. His nickname, coined by the many of the lower demons who'd been coerced into babysitting him or ones who'd been on the direct, receiving end of his mischief, as the most troublesome thing in all the circles of Hell had not been unfounded. It was a celebrity that didn't go unknown to anyone in the netherworlds, except Shini himself, who either did not understand the implications of the nickname assigned to him or was too busy getting himself immersed in trouble to notice or care.

"Yes, she will, he knows! She will be very angry with him and just toss him back into Limbo." Shini pouted and glanced over at the pillow he'd thrown over the arm of the couch. He picked it up again and cradled it in his arms protectively, resting his chin on his crossed arms with a miserable expression. "She gave him such a nice caretaker this time. He didn't want to make trouble this time, he swears. He did not want to make him worry this time, but he did anyway. She'll take me away from _Teishu_, and he won't even be sad to see him go."

Nadette's face flickered uncertainly. There was no certain consoling answer to this, unless she wanted to lie to the ailing deity. Although he was young in immortal years, he wasn't stupid enough as to think that his mother wouldn't be furious with him for botching this one up, when she'd been working for over a year staking out the "Arrogant Mortal" for her beseeching son and was returned only with even more nuisance when he was finally given what he asked for. Yes, Miss Iria would no doubt not waste a second in chucking her problematic son back into the transitional plane of existence and take a break from worrying about him.

"Well, it may not be as bad as you think. Heero would miss you if you did have to leave, I'm sure," she tried to reassure him with, a little awkwardly. "Right?"

Rubbing at his slightly puffy eyes, that's when the Angel of Death just sniffled pathetically and stared down at his toes. "He would not," he mumbled unhappily, reaching out to snatch up the tip of his demonic tail and knead it in his hand anxiously. "He does not want Shinigami her at all sometimes. Sometimes he is nice, but Shini can tell that he is just trouble to him, no matter what he does. He does not like him at all—he is scowling all the time!"

The secretary hesitated, rummaging her mind for something to respond with, drumming her fingers nervously on her knee. "He doesn't hate you, though. It could always be worse." Even though the sentiment of the comment had meant to be uplifting, the poor Divine only ended up worsening the expression on the Shinigami's face until it threatened with real tears. Se was already mentally kicking herself—she may not have been experienced with dealing with the dangerous mortal world, but she was very aware of what could and would happened should too many tears be shed. After all, she'd been plagued with hearing her superior gripe about it while not attending to her work, instead choosing to file her nails while sitting on her secretary's desk, gossiping.

"No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that—"

"Because it is the truth, isn't it?" Shini sniffled pathetically, rubbing the back of his hand noisily on his nose, holding back his tears. "He knows it is. He's not blind. _Teishu_ doesn't want him here, and that's just as bad as being hated completely to him."

Nadette was adjusting more and more to consoling the lachrymose creature. After all, her well being probably hinged on it; there was no way she'd be able to withstand an attack from a vengeance spirit should she be unable to dry his tears. She shook her head. "No, I'm sure that you're just mistaken. Heero doesn't not like you, he just—well, I'm sure that he just—"

Waiting for the conclusion of her sentence, the bedraggled, puffy-eyed deity lifted his head, sniffling once and fixing those innocent eyes on her, just waiting for his hope to be either torn asunder or uplifted with those bright violet eyes of his.

She hesitated and sucked in a tiny bit of breath before continuing. "He just—a little impatient, that's all. He's young, he'll learn to adjust before you know it," she tried as cheerfully, as brightly as she could. There was no way she wanted to risk upsetting the emotional creature again. "You know he's been alone for so long and living on his own since he was so young. He doesn't remember what it's like to have family. He's not ready for the change. That's it, I'm sure. Don't you agree?"

Shini's expression grew simple and considerably calmer, and he blinked clearly at the idea. It was not new to him, but he'd been too smitten and too afraid of rejection in his husband's presence to realize it. His mind began to turn the concept over carefully, looking for a new point of view from which to analyze it. "He was very alone, like Shini was," he began, nodding truthfully. "And he can get him to smile sometimes now, but he always gets so angry when Shini does something wrong, and that's not a few times. He just makes so much trouble for him, even when he wants to cheer him up. You think he's not mad at him?"

Nadette cautiously smiled. "You make trouble for everyone. Don't worry about him. I think he can handle it, don't you?"

He answered with a slow nod, gazing deeply off into the carpet while his young immortal mind churned, more positively this time. Another, waning sniffle, interrupted by another hiccup. As soon as the secretary believed that she was in the clear of the threat of tears and relaxed her posture in the chair, the Shinigami spoke up again, still curled up on the couch, clinching the pillow to his chest. "But he gets very mad when he tries to kiss him. That's still a very big problem. How is Shini supposed to stop doing _that_?" Tilting his head, he pondered the question while his tail curled at his feet, and he scratched at his disheveled hair from burrowing his ailing head into the cushion. "The only time he cannot see _Teishu_'s mouth is when he closes his eyes, and even then he still wants to very badly. That is a problem, huh?"

He rested his chin against the pillow and peered up at her, not necessarily requesting an answer but wondering all the same. The flustered secretary did not have and did not necessarily want to have to answer that question, either, and kept her mouth shut while the Shinigami wondered it on his own, hiccuping sharply as he did so. Another feather fell from the bone and floated to the ground without a sound. With a sigh, his eyelids drooped unhappily and he muttered to himself, "He misses him already."

A few minutes after that, while the time passed in silence between the ailing Shinigami and the timid secretary of his mother, the Angel of Death sat up in discomfort and she looked at him with an almost horrified expression when he hiccuped again, and a tiny black bubble floated lightly in the air in front of him. A little Darkness splattered to the floor when it popped. Shini hiccuped again, and this time he curiously reached out a hand to touch it, but it burst at the slightest brush. Nadette began wringing her hands again.

* * *

Iria flipped dully through the glossy pages of a magazine, with her womanly feet currently soaking beneath her desk and her files lying untouched in her In' basket. She bored eventually of looking at the flashy advertisements and reading the petty concerns in the timid, questioning letters to the editor and reclined back in her chair with a dissatisfied huff. Her toes curled in the warm water, and beneath her desk, her tiny sprite attendants were hurriedly tending to the heating fires created beneath the gilded container of water. Turning the pages without even looking, she let out a sigh and rolled her eyes.

"Someone get me another magazine. And this time, make sure I won't be reading it for the fifth time now!" she huffed in exasperation. She tossed it airily into the wastebasket. "Don't I pay someone to make sure I haven't read the magazine before I pick it up? For Hell's sake—!"

When the sprites at her feet continued only to work busily, also ignoring the boisterous woman's complaints by burying themselves in their task, she sighed again and folded her arms across her chest sharply. She looked around the room sourly until her eyes laid to rest on the phone on her desk, a vibrant, cherry-colored chic thing she hardly used except to punch the line to her secretary's office downstairs. Iria readjusted herself as she sat up straight, and one of the sprites beneath the desk caught a glimpse as the Goddess of Love re-crossed her legs in her skimpy dress-suit that ended nearly where those legs began. Caught off guard and with a slack jaw, he also caught a dripping wet, steaming warm foot in the chin and flopped to the floor with a clumsy grunt in his high-pitched voice.

Hardly noticing she'd sent one of her underpaid employees careening to the floor, she began to vainly tend her hair that no one would really see anyway as she reached out and punched the button that patched her through to her secretary's desk.

"Nadette, sweet, bring me something to do, would you? I'm dying up here," she asked flatly, lifting her finger so she could casually ruffle through her top desk draw for gum. Pushing aside lipstick and makeup and perfume bottles and money and jewels, she couldn't find any, and she sat stiffly back up in her seat, squinting, when no one responded. She punched the button again. "Nadette?"

Squinting suspiciously at the phone, she lifted an eyebrow. "Hey! Wake up, sunshine!" she barked loudly, hell-bent on rousing any secretaries that might be sleeping on the job. "If I find you're out for coffee or another one of your so-called bathroom breaks', and not here working where you should be, hon, I swear I will—"

"Uh, _Señorita_?"

The sprite who'd lifted his voice found himself stared sourly down by a Goddess of Love who loathed being interrupted over many things. "What the hell do you want, Thumbalina?"

"Your secretary is not in at the moment, you realize?"

"And why the hell is she not, then, _Señor_ Lawn Gnome?"

With a little more humility this time, the little sprite bowed away a little as he informed her, "You sent her away hours ago, remember? To Tokyo, I think."

Iria's look turned murderous with her blood-red eyeshadow in stark contrast to her blonde hair. She highly disliked being disproved, and hated it even more when she was caught in the middle of a mistake. Baring a curled lip at the creature, she growled, "Git."

"Excuse me, _Señorita_?"

"Git, git, git, you little flea! I don't want to listen to you gripe and complain anymore, so haul your ugly face out of here," she dismissed abruptly, conceitedly folding her arms and closing her eyes as she leaned back and picked up another magazine. When the creature promptly scurried away, leaving the fire heating the Goddess's water unattended and dwindling. He had difficulty in throwing his dazed friend over his shoulder, but took great pleasure in finally being free from the self-absorbed deity's office and pulled the other sprite into the velvet red elevator, eager to use it before the peevish woman snapped at him. Of course, he didn't realize he couldn't reach the button until the door closed.

A few minutes later she would sigh and chuck the magazine away with a frustrated squawk and proclaim to no one that she was horribly bored and fully expected that she paid _someone_ to prove entertainment for her when she was doing no work at all.

* * *

It'd been nearing an hour since Heero had taken off with a disappearing roar of _Youkai's_ engines, and Nadette's worried mind and hands were fully aching at his point. It had only taken a few minutes for the Shinigami to pass through the next stage of the Shrinks, the odd production of black, dripping bubbles, and straight into a exhausting immortal fever. Almost as if trying to sink away into the cushions and leave his misery behind him, Shini continued his feverish mumbling and buried his face into the pillows. As sick as he was, he kept moving anxiously, turning and shifting sides. With a groan, he flopped down lifelessly when he realized he was just not going to be able to get comfortable. His tail coil and twisted constantly as the fever ran through his body and his head mimicked the French carousels he'd seen in a slow, disconcerting spin.

The tall blonde secretary returned to the room with a blanket folded over her arm, while Shinigami curled up completely curled up on the couch and ceased his restless fidgeting. He had his back pressed up against the back of the couch, hiding the fact that each of his once majestic wings were nearly roughly the size of a chicken drumstick. His black silk robes spilled over the edge of the cushions, his feet wrapped up to keep warm. At the moment, Shini had his face buried beneath an arm and she could see his bare back shivering. The fever was worsening quickly—the illness had been progressing even quicker than Nadette could have expected. Not that she was any expert on metaphysical diseases, but it was clear that something was going wrong.

When she stopped next to the couch, still wary of contracting anything, he barely even noticed her. It wasn't until she self-consciously cleared her throat to announce her presence that he turned his head on the pillow to look at her out of the corner of one dizzy eye, his long hair tangled and his bangs slicked to his forehead. She held out the blanket to him and he took it with a heavy arm and covered himself with it. With a few tired, nauseated whimpers, he managed to crawl completely beneath it and pull it tight over his ailing head.

Nadette sat down on the chair again, a safe distance from the sick deity. It didn't take her long to begin wringing her hands again as nervous habit. The secretary glanced over to the clock hanging on the wall. It'd been an hour and a half. As she watched the second hand twitch agonizingly around the center, ticking so slowly, he gave off another loud hiccup, and it ended abruptly with a little strangled, sick noise muffled by the blanket.

"I hope he gets back soon," she muttered to herself. She turned her head again to address the sick Angel of Death. "Don't worry, Shinigami, he should be walking through the door any—Shinigami?"

Nadette stood up from the chair so fast that it knocked it over. "Shinigami?"

The blanket was draped motionless and innocent over the couch. The secretary walked over quickly, suddenly shaking with nervousness, and cautiously lifted up the edge of the blanket. "Shinigami? Oh, dear Heavens—" There was nothing but a pillow there and she pulled the blanket completely away, only confirming the horrible fear that the young deity had disappeared.

She was right. There was something wrong; he was progressing far too fast. He had already struck the final stage, marked by uncontrollable teleportation and the potential for the lethal disease known as the Drains. He could be anywhere within a hundred miles of the house at this moment, and he was definitely dehibilitated by the high fever. It'd be incredibly hard for even a Divine to find him now, she realized, and her fear solidified in her stomach as a tightknot.

Standing there lost, without a clue as to what she should do next, she held the blanket over her arm while the other went to cover her mouth in dread. She stood there until a few moments later when you could hear the distant growl of returning motors in the driveway and feet on the porch. Her eyes moved toward the hallway, widened as she heard the door opening. "Oh, dear"

* * *

A/N: Well, I don't have much to say, and even less time to say it. So, I think I'll thank everybody who bothers to read what I take the time to write, and then I'll have to bolt. And I just did, so, ciao! Oh, one thing I forgot : I'm having a hard time deciding when I should post the first chapter of the new fic I'm working on, Barbarians in Rome. I have the first chapter of five or six competely done and the second is near completion. So this is my question to everyone who reads this author's note. Should I wait to finish the entire story until I post the first chapter, then post the next every week or so, or should I post it now and just hope I can get my nose to the grindstone and finish it in a relatively decent time? I'd choose either way, but I'm more worried about making readers wait ridiculous amounts of time for the next installment, as has become the situation with Twelve. Speakign of which, there might be a little suprise coming up. That's all, so, I gotta go. Ciao! 


	24. 2000 Light Years Away

Chapter 24

"2000 Light Years Away"

Between two roughly parallel streets in western Shinjuku-ku lay an open alleyway connecting the two. It had been converted, like almost any precious free space in the bustling city, into a marketing opportunity and stuffed to the rafters with stores and boutiques flaunting names in English that would rarely adhere to normal American grammar but displayed them proudly anyway. The street was immaculate and paved with concrete, divided into two walks by a low green rail in the middle of the alleyway. On either side there could be seen a few preened and green bushes and young ash trees, and the mouths of the shops spewing from all the customers moving busily in and out, young consumers itching to dump the yen burning holes in their pockets. Through the current of the shopping district they moved, swinging purses and listening to the music pulsing from their headphones. They were little expecting or even able to imagine that in a moment they'd be in the presence of one of the outdated gods that only their antiquated grandparents worshipped.

And the poor deity, he would have no idea of what was happening after he fell into existence abruptly and also hit the concrete on the way there. He was suddenly just there, crumpling to the ground as if he'd fallen from the sky because of his puny wings. The Shinigami popped into existence between those two streets in Shinjuku-ku and sat up with a whine while he nursed his stubbed nose. His face was already flushed red with a heightening fever and even to sit up on his knees was enough to invite vertigo. Just before he swooned over again, he sneezed loudly and another black bubble floated up on the breeze.

But it was so heavy with thick Darkness oil it lumbered toward the ground before it popped and dripped to the concrete. After a few seconds in the sun, the oil began to crawl in agitation toward the protection of the nearest shadow.

Already, a few kids and one dour-faced old man had already stopped to observe the strange-looking young man in the middle of the street. They kept their distance, though. After all, they weren't going to be able to ignore a half-naked, foreign-looking man sitting and swooning unhealthily on the concrete. The fact that he was wearing nothing but archaic black robes, had chestnut hair untied down to his waist, and a certain ominous air hung around him helped, too. After a while, he had begun to draw more and more eyes from the streets and the shops.

They watched the strange man shake his head dizzily a few times before he blinked, took a double take, and realized where he was. That's when he oddly clamped his hands over his mouth, hiccuped, and shook his head dreadfully. Just as the crowd watching him started to get some vague suspicions and fears, the strange young man tried to get to his feet, sneezed, toppled backward in a dizzy spell, and disappeared before he could hit the ground. After that, the crowd quickly dispersed itself.

A few young girls gaped and ran out to the spot where the handsome young man had disappeared. The crawling black puddle was what finally scared them away, and the rest had already quickly turned or walked away, ready to forget the strange sight they'd seen. That was lucky for the ailing deity, already involuntarily teleported to another _chu_, or neighborhood, of Tokyo. He was going to be spotted many more times, and hopefully all the rest would be as willingly forgetful, for he'd be much too sickly to think about that. He'd be too sickly to do much but sneeze, hiccup, and wish he'd heeded his mother's advice.

* * *

When Heero came into the living room, he was still pulling off his sneakers clumsily with one hand, which he'd failed to leave at the doorway because of his rush. In the other, he held the object he'd been sent out into the unseen, ethereal underground of Tokyo, risking his neck among disagreeable monsters of lore, and his face wore the an almost vulnerable look of surprise when he arrived, still moving forward from the momentum of trying to take off his dirty sneakers as he walked. He nearly dropped it the first time, blinked at the empty couch, and then really did drop it to the carpet. Clumps of half-dried mud soaked into the fabric as he left it there, more occupied at the moment with his unpleasant surprise. He stumbled into the living room as he yanked off the other shoe and let it hang in his grip while he stared at the couch.

The blanket under which had laid the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami now laid flat against the cushions. There were pillows tossed on the floor and disturbed cushions, all littered with a layer of glistening black feathers, so the signs of his existence had not disappeared, but the air felt empty and barren without him there. His cheerfully, enthusiastic, and often troublemaking presence was even more noticeable when it was gone. The house seemed awfully quiet now, even though now it just did not harbor a God of Death to make any noise to disturb the silence. That's when the sneaker slipped out of Heero's fingers and he almost dropped the little golden vial in his other hand as well.

Nadette remained standing in the living room, some distance behind him. She watched him with caution. He was simply standing there, not moving, until he turned his head to look at her out of the corner of his intense blue eye. Luckily for the secretary who hated confrontational situations, he spoke evenly.

"Please tell me he just went up to the bathroom for something."

She shook her head sadly. Even now, his face remained level and reasonable, though still a little vulnerable for her tastes. It was always the handsome mortals who had the worst sad-eyes and it made her even more anxious that she already was. It'd been only a minute or two at the most since Shini had disappeared, and already she could imagine the wrathful expression of her superior should she find out that her son had been misplaced someplace in Tokyo, and oh yes, he had a potentially lethal case of the Shrinks.

Heero squinted unhappily at the couch, walked forward to take the blanket off, and sighed as he rolled it up in his arms. Still staring at the ruffled cushions, he asked, "He's already in the last stages, isn't he? Do you have any idea where he could have gone?" He glanced at her over his shoulder when she failed to produce a sound, and she shook her head again with a very apologetic expression.

He tossed the bunched up blanket into the corner of the couch and black feathers skittered along on the breeze it created. "Shit," Heero announced in complaint, though his face didn't loose that vulnerable expression. "I have a feeling this isn't going to end well," he mumbled to hismelf.

After the surprise of discovering that the Angel of Death had again found away to cause trouble even when he was only lying innocently on the furniture, Heero decided that he'd wasted enough time and if he stood around his house he definitely wasn't going to find him. He somehow doubted Shinigami would simply appear again at his feet, looking bedraggled but definitely still alive, and went quickly back to where he'd dropped his muddy sneakers when from upstairs came a tiny eletronic peal. Heero stopped and stood straight up to listen. He knew he'd never be caught dead with the chorus of "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" as his ring tone, and went bolting up the staircase toward his bedroom as it rang again, one sullied shoe in hand as he took the stairs two at a time.

The miniature pink Hermes cellphone was laying on Heero's nightstand, ringing as loud as an obnoxious bird inside the silent house to the beat of an old disco song. Without the sounds of Shini snooping around the house, or scampering on the roof, or tailing Heero and begging to play a game, the noise went uncushioned and echoed sharply against the walls. He picked it up, knocked over the alarm clock in his haste, and flipped it open in the middle of the second chorus. As soon as he had, it could already hear the griping voice of a certain demigod, and he frowned at the glowing gold screen for a second before putting it to his ear.

"About time, Arrogant Mortal. What the hell were you doing? Coping the Bible by hand? You must walk slower than I age, I swear!" Iria snapped at him, also smacking her gum into the receiver. On the other end of the line, she sitting at the gold and ruby-studded vanity she kept in her second closet, wrapped up in a silken robe and her hair wrapped up in a towel.

"What do you want?" Heero growled back. Oh, yeah. He remembered the oh-so affectionate nickname with a scowl.

"Give me my secretary back. It's been bloody long enough! I have to redo my nails and I need someone to flip my magazine for me," she explained, as if it was obvious and Heero should have known and spared her the stupid question.

The mortal made an odd face. "Why don't you just ask somebody _else_?"

The goddess scoffed at him, now picking up her eyeliner, which slunk to the corner of the box when she lifted the lid off and hissed at her and coiled up. As she pinched the tiny black snake by the neck and slid his tongue over her eyelid, she replied, "Because Nadette is the only one would can do it half-decently. Everyone else always picks up the blandest issues. I want my secretary back."

"Why don't you come and get her yourself?"

Iria quaintly dropped the creature back into its box, where it whimpered and crawled into the shadow. She went looking for the key for her mascara box next, half-listening to Heero while she shuffled through drawers. "Just because I'm beautiful and successful doesn't mean I have the time to do all these fanciful things—my work is very important and I'm never _not_ pressed for time. Unlike you lowly mortals, I have a responsibility to go with my remarkable beauty and exquisite power and I do so extremely faithfully." This was said while the In' pile was overflowing and the Out' pile might not have seen a paper pass through it for years. "Send her back. Walk her to the station if you have to."

"I'm surprised Shini learned to tell his head from his ass, with a mother like you," Heero grumbled to himself.

"Excuse me?" Iria asked abruptly, quitting her admiration of her hair in the reflection as she heard the mumble. "Would you care to repeat that, Arrogant Mortal? I didn't quite catch that last part."

He ignored it. There were more pressing issues than his regular argument with the self-centered Goddess of Love. "I'd be glad to return your secretary, but there's a problem."

"Ugh," Iria scoffed at him in distaste. "You haven't been fooling around with her have you?"

Safely on the earthly side of the line, Heero rolled his eyes. He was not amused in the least. "No."

"Good, because if you did, that'd be cheating. And that'd be in direct violation of our agreement and I would have the right to cut off whatever body part I wished, Heero Yuy," she warned plainly, as if it was casual information. "So remember that when you think you're getting the seven-year itch, your eyes better not wander off my precious Shinigami or I'll be there to personally secure that you'll never foster any illegitimate children. Plus, if it's a Catholic woman, I get to take another body part and stick it in a jar just for kicks. Catholic women are so damn hard to sway, holy hellfire! Takes three or four arrows to take them down, and those things don't just grow on trees! They snip a neat amount off my profit, I'll tell you—"

"Alright, hold it. Just wait a minute," Heero interrupted suddenly, furrowing his brow as he listened to the Divine's words in his head again, coming across a certain line with a red light flashing in his mind. "What seven-year' itch?"

"Oh, Arrogant _and_ Stupid? You must be the diamond in the rough Shini convinced me you would be. Drugstore diamond is more like it." She scoffed and let out another windy, dramatic sigh, but at the same time, she disinterestedly picked through her collection of exotic makeup items and they hissed and growled at her.

By now, Heero's jaw was set tightly, both from frustration with the ramblings of his dreaded mother-in-law, and from something else, much more upsetting. He repeated it again with less patience. "_What_ seven-year' itch?"

For a moment, there was a silence over the line. Then, "Oh, Hell." The deity had considerably lost her casual, offhand tone and she even quit touching up her hair in the mirror. "So" she drawled, "I'm guessing that means you have _not _slept with my son, then."

"Definitely not," he growled back.

"you didn't just forget, or something—?"

"No!"

"Oh, damn it all, Shinigami! You oversensitive crybaby, you _knew _you had to seduce this one! Just take your own sweet time, why don't you?" Iria railed to herself, huffing impatiently.

"Wait one fucking minute," Heero interrupted again. "You were going to—"

"Yes, yes," she confessed in annoyance, now that the secret had been brought out into the open. "I never actually was going to come and get Shini after the five days, alright? Is that what you want to hear? Well, fine, it's out there." When there was a tense, constricted moment of silence, she spoke up brazenly again. "If you would just suck it up and get over that ridiculous authority-complex of yours that makes you turn your little nose up at whatever people tell you to do, you'd see that this is the best, for both you and Shini! Holy Hell, you have pretty eyes, but you can't see anything with them, I swear!"

The Arrogant Mortal was not happy in the least to hear that, and just suspecting it would have been enough to fully upset him. Now, if there had been anyone in the bedroom with him, they would have found themselves pinned to the wall by the knives in his eyes, as he scowled at the phone. "Whatever happen to a Divine's sacred word?" he growled at her finally, clenching a fist at his side.

"Hey, I lied," Iria answered. "We do that _too_, you know."

At that moment, the harrowing worry over the disappearance of the Shinigami and the new found fury at the discovery he'd been deceived by both of the gods were mixing in his mind in a frightful combination. He was visibly upset, but torn as what direction to put that energy to, his rage, or his concern. For a few seconds, the phone line remained quiet as Heero scowled at the wall, fist tightening. And eventually, without the affectionate smile of the Angel of Death to ground him, to put sense in his head for a moment, the former won out and took control.

"Anything _else _you'd care to tell me?" His voice was near venomous.

"Keep him away from food," she answered casually, going calmly back to applying her makeup. "I forgot to mention that to you, so my secretary should have come and told you. You'd better watch him. That scamp will shove anything sweet-smelling he can find into his mouth as fast as he can."

Heero managed to keep his jaw gritted tightly enough to hold back his frustration, his anger, and his fury at his deception behind his teeth as he talked out between them. One last answer came out of him before it swelled out of control. "I already know. And if you want to see your son alive again, I suggest you get over here and find him, because lost in Tokyo. He's probably going to die very fucking soon and I don't know where to even start looking." And before Iria could even register her great surprise and disbelief, he'd hung up angrily and was already dashing back down the hallway and taking two steps down the stairs before simply jumping the rest of the way.

* * *

People in all corners of Tokyo were being inadvertently terrorized by a figment of old religion, though to the individuals who saw him it seemed like an isolated incident of pure delusion shared with those around them. It could have very well been the summer heat, which was beginning to climb that day up to dizzying temperatures, so most simply walked away. They were ready to convince themselves they were just suffering from a little dehydration, and went wandering off for a beverage. That was a good thing for the poor Shinigami, for he was thrown all over the sprawling city at the mercy of his erratic teleportation, hiccuping and sneezing all the way. The God of Death appeared next inside a cold, empty stairwell, already rolling down the last three steps of a flight of stairs and coming to a stop with a whimpering sigh. It echoed back to him off the walls in a distorted reverberation and he sat up groggily.

His head was spinning horribly out of his control from the slightest movement, and it upset him a lot, not even being able to focus clearly. He blinked slowly at the close, whitewashed walls, trying to get his fevered mind to force his eyes to focus on the number painted on the wall and failing anyway. He felt as sickly as he looked, struggling to keep his inner balance while he sat up. Fever turned his face a glowing red, coated his skin with a thin sheen of sweat, and made his violet eyes hazy and unsure. His hair had again returned to its unruly state, and it felt heavy and stuffy on his back, so he weakly gathered it up and held it over his shoulder. As he squinted at the wall in the cramped stairwell, he held it tight and nervously ran his fingers over his tangled hair. He couldn't make the number out and, fully discouraged, tried to figure out exactly where he was.

He knew he was in a stairwell for the moment, but that could change. Before, he'd seen glimpses of shrines as he'd fallen into existence at the foot of the stairs, smelled food in restaurants, and once the terrifying blaring of horns as he momentarily existed in the middle of a street. Countless other places as well, sometimes only for a moment and sometimes longer. The only constant had been the confused dread everytime he felt himself transported to another unknown place. A fearful part in his heart, one unaffected by the crippling fever, knew that that he was most likely be torn from his current position like a leaf on the wind and it was that part that realized he could die—that he could be destroyed by a horrible disease simply because he had taken a bite of mortal food.

And that in turn scared him to tears again, falling out of his reddened eyes with hardly a notice. The world was blurry again, and his face was burning and wet. All he wanted was his _Teishu_ to be standing before him, with that same little disgruntled scowl and telling him he was being ridiculous, that he was fine after all. He'd shake his head, maybe even roll his blue eyes at him, and stand him up and take him home. Shini smiled weakly to himself. He knew Heero would roll his eyes, sigh, and huff and puff in exasperation, but he would never just leave him no matter how much he managed to fuss or grumble. Though he hoped his mortal husband would just somehow be there to grumble and lead him to _Youkai_, he knew that it was near to impossible. Not even he knew where he was—he wasn't even sure if he was going up or down the stairwell when he staggered to his feet and tried to find his way out without an inkling of direction.

By now, the terrible ache in his bones had disappeared, substituted for a worse one in his stomach. It felt like he'd swallowed a live serpent rather than a bowl of ice cream and now it'd woken up and started hissing and fighting back in his belly. The Shinigami continued his direction-less motion; he was halfway delirious, halfway terrified as the pain continued to worsen. The serpent was striking at his insides now, and he had to stop for a minute. He made a confused face as he wrapped his arms around his bare stomach and looked down to see wisps of black mist coming off the skin of his torso, and dissipating slowly. The pain kept getting worse, no matter how tightly Shini pressed on his churning stomach.

His feet stumbled off the last step and he fell to his knees on the floor, overtaken by the vicious alliance of vertigo and this strange new pain. Shini tried calling out to Heero, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he hiccuped violently. Little could he know, the first stages of the Drains had already sunk its teeth into the poor Shinigami. The very stuff that kept him alive, animated him, gave him his latent power, was just seeping out of him.

As he finally gave into his ailing body and curled up in the corner, on the cement floor, he felt all the Darkness in his body tense up in anticipation. Shini mewled unhappily to himself, knowing that another random teleportation was coming to throw any clarity he'd gained out the window and set him down in another place. He huddled closer to the wall in the hopes that it might keep him from being jarred around the city without his permission. With each teleportation, his body ached more deeply, and it spent his energy. It was what caused his Drains, when the Darkness contained in him was somehow let loose and would ebb out of him until nothing remained in his Divine body. The only things that remained with him throughout every transportation were his dizzy head and the comforting but distant image of the blue-eyed mortal that recalled of a time when he wasn't blind with sickness and in pain and alone.

He pressed his nose into the corner of the stairwell's whitewashed walls and groaned, "He's sorry, Heero. He swears he'll never make you angry again—he'll never kiss you again if you don't want, just come take him home. Please. He's sorry, sorry, sorry, _Teishu_." His hot tears came freely now, and he rubbed a weak hand across his face to wipe them. But he just ended up burying his face into those hands.

The wisps of escaping Darkness hung eerily in the air around him as he cried to himself, his bare back to the stairwell. His tiny wings, nearly naked of their feathers and revealing stark white bone beneath them, were to weak to do anything, and as he tried to resist the next teleportation and remain there, crying, his tail smoked then opened up in flame. A second later, he was not there.

Only a little black mist hung in the air afterward and even that faded within a few moments.

* * *

A/N: Hmmm, I might just be ahead of myself in this arc. I think there should only be about five more chapters, but that's an estimate. I've been moving a few of the elements around, saving some for later and whatever, so I might be further along than I expected. Poor, poor Shini, huh? I'm not being very nice to you, and Heero's definitely not going to be in the mood to, either, and you don't have a clue what to do. I'm so kind to all the characters, aren't I? And Iria's practically mother of the year! The chapter title is, of course, the Green Day song off _Kerplunk!_. Hey, when I'm in doubt of what to name the chappie, I go scrounging through my cds. Yeah, big music addict. Never leave home, go to sleep, work, write, or do anything without some! 


	25. For the Sake of Heaven

Chapter 25

"For the Sake of Heaven"

Heero sat astride his father's motorcycle and the engine growled as if it were impatient as well. The secretary stood at the edge of the driveway, as cautious as ever behind her cat-eye glasses. She was silent as Heero slid the helmet over his head. The sky was starting to grow dimmer and the threatening twilight was taking hold. He knew that it was going to be dark long before he'd be able to scour half of Tokyo's sprawling cityscape and his severe expression reflected that knowledge. He looked up to the nervous blonde Divine standing at the edge of his driveway, told her, "Make sure she comes here," and decisively pulled down the visor. That's when he revved the engine and it thundered like an animal ready to run. Nadette nearly opened her mouth to ask him one final thing, but the impulse waned as Heero turned and pealed out of his driveway and out into the street at what was most likely an illegal speed.

That just left the apprehensive secretary to stand at the end of the driveway, watching the sun creep toward its nightly resting ground, alone. Nadette realized then that she had no mode of transportation to return to the entrance to Valentine from which she had come other than walking there with her own two legs. She glanced tentatively back to the direction Heero had disappeared in a roar of engines, bit her lip, and slowly forced herself to begin the long trek ahead of her. The sooner she began, the sooner she'd be able to reach Iria, who no doubt was having a very adverse reaction to the whole situation. She had been able to hear their conversation, after all, and disrespect from humans was not something she tolerated well.

But it'd been Nadette who'd been forced to stay late and work on researching the unknown beautiful mortal face Shinigami had seen, while Iria was out painting the town. Her supervisor would be furious, she knew, and she'd be snapping out at nobody, denouncing him for disrespecting him after all the "work" she did to bring him the blessing that was her son. And, as she timidly walked by all the Japanese homes, feeling self-conscious, she was right. For at that very moment, the Goddess of Love was ripping through her office with a ferocity that could have made Ares stop and flinch at the doorway.

While the assault raged, violence inflicted on whatever sat in the way, her imp attendants cowered in the shoeboxes in the closet, her stiletto heels evicted from them.

"That worthless, snot-nosed, ungrateful brat!" came the scream when the lamp was knocked from the table and fell to the floor. The bulb shattered and the light flickered out. And then she kicked it, sending the broken thing to burst against the wall. "I can't believe it! The nerve, the absolute _nerve_! Arrogant Mortal, you can burn in Hell for all I care!"

She let loose another aggravated snarl that would have sent a griffin slinking back to their rocky nests, could have turned the Minotaur around whimpering, and descended upon the day planner that sat on the corner of her desk, filled with doodles and random little notes and tore it to shreds upon her red carpet. Listening the animalistic rage coming from their supervisor, who was supposed to be the motherly patron of love and affection, as she tore through the room with more reckless abandon than a bull in a china shop wearing a bathrobe and hair turban, the two imps lifted the lid of the shoebox. Only seconds later they slammed it shut, as an empty martini glass smashed into the closet, becoming tiny pink shards that flew in the air. Her bejeweled makeup cases went next, and her eyeliner and blush managed to slither and crawl away and escape.

Whoever tried to enter the office for the lengthy frenzy of frustrated cursing and destruction that followed either stood timidly at the door, his or her ears assaulted by a colorful and angry tirade against some mortal, or attempted to enter and found themselves with a face full of paperclips or crumpled up memos that had never been read. She simply kept going and going. Centuries of trying to shelter and nurture her homeless son, her innocent refugee, her well-meaning hellion, sorting through unreliable and short-lived caretakers, being bossed around by Hades' decrees and rules, nursing Shinigami's wounds when he was bullied in his younger years, dealing with an overemotional confused creature when he accidentally killed, trying to reign in his curious and dangerous inquisitiveness—each and all came out, triggered by the insolent phone call. And, unfortunately for her beloved chic office, it just happened to be the location where those frustrations had been unleashed.

There was a small, stunned crowd huddled around the door to the Goddess of Love's office when Nadette came breathlessly up the stairs, carrying her high-heels in her hand. At the same time, Iria had taken to bashing something loudly against the wall and the secretary's eyes were wide as she thought she heard the chair crashing into the window.

"What's going on?" she gasped, almost stumbling on her long legs in shock. She gaped around at the few creatures gathered there, and they just looked cautiously back at her. The situation spoke for itself, really.

"We don't know—she just started going berserk all of a sudden!" one piped up.

"She hit me in the eye with her brush," the next added with a lamenting tone, pointing dumbly at his black and blue eye swelling shut. "And she chipped my horn, too."

The one standing beside him was awfully pale and growing fainter as he managed to swallow the lump in his throat and speak up. "I have an appointment in five minutes," he squeaked out, his conviction to that meeting obvious waning as the casualties racked up in the expensively decorated room.

Nadette quickly crossed the reception area, not even noticing that the chairs there, too, had fallen prey to her supervisor's venting. The door was cracked open, and the flashes of color that were things being tossed from one side of the room to the other were getting quicker and the crashes louder, more frequent. The tall Divine crept by the huddled group, none of which reached much higher than her hip, and tried to peer into the room. But as soon as the door started to open, Iria snapped her head around viciously at the movement, and a supernatural wind whipped out at the offending intruder. Causing the door to slam into the face of whoever was opening it, and that person happened to be her beloved secretary.

"Ooof!" she squeaked, and the creatures huddling near gaped.

The door rattled from the force with which it had struck the unsuspecting blonde's nose and swung back while she also staggered back, dropping the shoes from her grip to put her hands to her face. "Oh, oh my," she groaned through her fingers, feeling cool, sticky liquid start to trickle down from her dainty powdered nose. In a second, a tiny blue drop fell to the floor and she groaned again, pulling her hands delicately away. There was a growing bloodstain coming down her face. The secretary heard the crowd gasp and draw away as if she was poisonous to the touch.

The ridiculous crashing and thunder of Aphrodite thrashing continued in the room, unaffected by the drama caused just outside the door. Iria was thoroughly working out her frustrations and getting a good workout out of it tearing the room apart by the seams.

"How dare he! How he _dare_ defy me! I swear, it won't be the last thing I do, but I'll get that sour-faced little sh—"

Nadette definitely felt the damage done to her dainty face, but she staggered back toward the door in determination. She stood to loose if Shinigami should really perish, too. Who knew what kind of destruction that her supervisor was capable if under the stress of her beloved son's death at the neglectful hand of an arrogant mortal? She might even turn on her nearest confidantes. Would she hurt her secretary in rage? The answer was vague, and she truly did not want to find out the hard way. She straightened her cat eye glasses and again cautiously opened the door.

The blonde gaped as she stepped in, shoving the door completely open. "Miss Iria!" she cried out, another trickle of blue _ichor_ running down her lip. "What are you _doing_?"

The Goddess of Love hesitated in her construction of a large pile of broken up furniture and paper to look up to her secretary's shocked voice, the thumb of her left hand stuck in the air, emanating a little flame. She had been ready to torch the pile, riot-style, and the look she gave the intruder was one of misunderstanding. "What?" she asked, drawing her eyebrows tightly together. "What's _your_ problem, Nadie?" And she turned right around, sticking her flaming thumb toward the tinder of shredded documents at the base of the pile.

"No, Miss Iria, you mustn't!"

As soon as the secretary approached her, she whipped her head up, growling like an animal. "Oh, shut your cakehole! I'll do as I damn well please with this room, and I say it needs a good thrashing! If you're trying to butt in on my fun, you can trash your own desk."

Nadette flinched at her supervisor's harsh tone, but she went bravely forward again and gripped the deity by the shoulder when she had turned her back again. "I'm sorry, Miss Iria, I know that you are upset, but you must not waste your time here. Your son—"

"My son? How about the asshole I actually let take care of him!" she snapped back mindlessly, too absorbed in venting to actually consider the words spilling out her mouth. Still dressed in only her bathrobe and her wet, stringy blonde hair, she ripped her shoulder out of the grip and she withdrew. Her rage was surging again and she screamed furiously at the broken furniture heap as if it were the Arrogant Mortal himself.

"You worthless waste of a human body, you couldn't even take care of a pet rock! If you just paid some attention to Shini and stopped only thinking of yourself, didn't scowl at everything, he would have done whatever you asked him! You idiotic slimeball, I swear, if I wasn't under a nonviolent obligation," she threatened vehemently, taking the leg off her chair from the pile and snapping it in two and tossing it carelessly to the floor.

"But, Iria, your son—"

"Oh, yes, my son! The horrible, ugly, intolerable monster. How could I ever have expected you to actually love such a beast!" she snapped, growling and kicking at the pile. "Oh, how irresponsible of me! I forgot. To err is Divine, to be fucking stuck up is human!"

"Miss Iria!" Nadette cried out after, growing cautious at her violent actions. Again, her thumb lit up with a flickering flame like a cigarette lighter. "No, stop, Iria!"

"I can't believe him, doing that to my son—! The _nerve_ of that prick!"

Again, the secretary lunged at her supervisor, taken prisoner by her fury, and tried to prevent the entire building from going up in flames. Again, she was shaken off by a raging Goddess of Love, who let off another stream of cursing at the insolent mortal who had betrayed her trust by turning out to be probably the most frigid-hearted creature she'd every encountered.

"For what he's done to Shini, I'd tear him to pieces if I could, I swear—!"

"Miss Iria, you need to _go_ to your son—"

"I mean, of all the cold-hearted shit to pull, breaking Shini's poor heart—"

"Miss Iria!" Nadette finally cried out in frustration, feeling her words were only echoing back to her off a brick wall.

"How dare he think he could get away with that, hurting my son!"

Slowly, the Goddess of Love's hands went slack, letting the piece of broken wood clatter into the mass of broken furniture at the center of the whirlwind that had once been her neatly organized office. Her frenzied bitching and screaming waned away to nothing by the time she had turned her head to face her secretary, out of breath and her eyes smeared with tearing makeup. Abruptly, the understanding had hit her, and the shoulder of her extravagant bathrobe slipped slightly down her shoulder, matching the disarray of her damp hair. She gaped at Nadette quietly for a second.

"M-my son," she fumbled out, finally struck with the realization. "He'soh, shit. Why didn't you just _say _so, Nadie?"

The blonde secretary was gasping for breath from yelling over Iria's monstrous voice of rage and could only dimly shake her head in response, forced to sit down on the carpet from exhaustion. Running from the mortal world to Valentine and immediately trying to tame her supervisor after doing so had taken its toll on her. So when Iria dashed out of the door past her and thundered down the stairs in worried frenzy, she remained there, catching her breath, relieved but still astonished at what had actually just happened. The nervous group peered in around the door at the scene of destruction and the tall woman sitting on the floor in fatigue.

* * *

The sun had crept behind the clouds low to the horizon, and it looked down on the streets of Tokyo with a hazy shine. Streets that bustled and moved in their usual fashion, hummed with activity, overflowed with people. Streets that were painted with the burning of the slowly setting son. Streets where one could find a young Heero Yuy on his father's motorcycle, thundering and weaving through traffic with little diplomacy and violating many of the city's laws of decent driving with little care. The only reason he had not yet been flagged down by traffic police with a hefty fine was that he simply roared past anyone who might have been trying to stop him. He navigated the streets without direction, only with an outstanding purpose.

And that just happened to be trying to pinpoint, in the bustling streets at sunset, a young God of Death who was, ironically, dying. Or, at least, he would be if he were not found quickly. His death would mean just short of disaster for Heero Yuy, as well. So it was natural for him to be a little edgy when he pulled up to a stoplight, waiting impatiently behind a squat gray Toyota, and snapped the visor up on his helmet. It was just his luck that Shinigami wouldn't happen to be sitting on the corner restaurant, and make this frantic search a thousand times less difficult. No, he probably found it much more entertaining to lead him on a wild goose chase, he thought while grinding his teeth.

_Youkai_ growled beneath him, seemingly chomping on the bit. He swung his head back and forth, seeing more and more but finding even less and less confidence in himself that he'd actually be able to pull this stunt off. While he sat at the stoplight, his uncertainties had the time to catch up with him and fill his head with doubt. The odds of finding Shini in the densest city of all the Far East were slim in the first place, and factor in a crippling disease that would every few seconds again throw the poor deity to another distant corner with apparently no rhyme or reason. He was not just looking for a needle in a haystack; he was searching for a needle that flew from hay bale to hay bale.

And he was not happy with it at all. As he remained there, seemingly waiting for an eternity for the light to change, his hands were gripping tighter and tighter around the handlebars. His knuckles were burning white.

It had been half an hour's worth of hurried searching and he'd been greeted with street upon street, boulevard upon boulevard of divinity-free crowds. And with each passing road, with each building that whirled by without a sobbing young man in odd, black silk robes, the stakes of this situation drove themselves a little tighter into his brain and added to the pressure. He didn't need to be reminded that should Shini perish, his quality of life would most likely suffer at his highly vengeful mother's hands. Even in death, he wouldn't be safe. So it was up to the mortal to preserve the god's life, and it would have been a simple task had there been anyway to find aforementioned deity. It wasn't like his fuel tank would remain full forever, either, or that his eyes wouldn't tire, or that his deadline wouldn't strike him in the face and he didn't have the chance of coming across the withering corpse of the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami splayed out in the middle of a street somewhere, a starburst of blue blood surrounding him.

For a second, his head remained empty except for the morbid reverie he'd thought up. He could picture the once young, once grinning and once ruddy face of the Shinigami absolutely pale and still. His hair would be scattered on the ground around his head, soaked with water and blood and dirt. And his wings, shrunken and mangled, would still flutter lightly in the breeze, while the unbelieving faces peered down at him. Heero suddenly shuddered at the violence of this vision, and realized, from the courteous blaring of a horn from behind him, that the light had finally changed to green. He neglected to flip down the visor as he gunned it forward in the lane, passing through the intersection with his resent and his disturbing vision lingering hotly in his brain.

The sun had finally begun to touch the horizon, it's nightly bedmate. The vibrant, bleeding colors of sunset spread across the streets. Neon signs were warming up for the night, and windows glowed like sheets of pure gold and fire. None of that provided any solace, as Heero was far too busied trying to find a dying god to notice the beauty. _Youkai _rumbled down the road and came to a stretch bathed in the orange light. Heero squinted at the brightness, and lifted his hand to his face to pull down the visor.

Somewhere, a god must have smiled on them, for Heero caught a fleeting glimpse of fire red coming off his pinky finger and leading off into the distance to the right. The vibrant string caught the light for an instant, flashed, and then disappeared as quickly as it had come. It was a momentary thing, and no commonplace mortal would have even been able to see it. But Heero did, and his eyes moved up to the horizon to where it had led, and slammed on the brakes out of shock.

The car behind him laid on the horn angrily as he made a sudden stop in traffic and swiftly turned his motorcycle to the right, to face the setting sun. He disappeared in a peal of roaring engines, dodging through the oncoming traffic to get through the intersection as fast as his machine would take him. _Youkai's_ thundering cry went speedily off into the distance and the confounded driver behind Heero glanced out the window to the right, saw the Parisian silhouette of Tokyo Tower, shook his head, and went on.

At that moment, a certain distance away, the Shinigami lay panting on the ground where he had fallen into existence a few moments ago. Throughout the teleportations, his mind and body had been steadily weakening and the very substance that animated him was slipping away into the mortal twilight. He slipped in and out of unconsciousness with each new placement, and he was lying on his back when his hazy, pained eyes opened again. He squinted, blinked, and squinted again. He tried desperately to focus, to be able to see the burning clouds moving overhead, but a second after he'd woken up, the pain set in on him again.

"Mnnnhhh—hurts, _Teishu_," he grumbled unhappily. "Tell the pain to go and bother someone else; he has had enough for today, he has."

The God of Death lay motionless on the cold blacktop for a few idle, pained minutes before his draining brain began to register that he was somewhere new. And with that knowledge, a little more fear came seeping into him. It was getting cold, he felt dimly, and his head ached and spun. He was hungry again, but he knew that was a more dire kind of emptiness, one that would not be quenched by the sweet human food that had put him in this position in the first place. He groaned again, and blinked blearily around. "Where is he?" he rasped.

His joints felt like they were filled with burning sawdust as he tried weakly to sit up, then staggered and slipped. He struck the ground again, and whined lowly. "Come on," he drawled towards the heavens, "let him sit up. He only wants to sit up. Please." And when he did manage this feat with or without divine intervention—tenderly, carefully, slowly—he crumpled to the side, vomiting.

It was a horrifying experience in his frightened state, to feel warm, sticky liquid rushing out of him like an ocean wave and his body arching up tensely. His aching muscles burned again as he coughed. Darkness oil dripped from around his lips into the greasy, twitching pile he'd tossed up while he sat there, helpless to the new pains and aches taking hold of him. He'd never thrown up before. It was not very pleasant, and it scared him. Shini groaned and sat up, trying to get the sticky substance off his mouth, nothing like the chocolate he'd tasted that morning.

His half-lidded eyes scanned the blurry setting around him and he settled his back against something solid, cold, and metal. He could barely make out the lines of parked cars surrounding him, and the distant hustle and bustle of the roads. There were no voices, no music, no unknown noises. Sometimes he would hear flutter of pigeon wings as they settled to the parking lot blacktop to peck at scraps. Once, a crow cawed from the branches of the tree, but Shini hardly paid notice to any of it. While he sat in the empty parking space, leaning against the bumper of a parked car, the sun continued to set, and the great shadow of the structure towering overhead moved across the mass of cars.

Shini had his hands limply placed over his stomach, heaving with heavy, blocked breathing, and from between his fingers wisps of darkening smoke would curl into the air, as if he were burning from the inside out. His face, now dirty, smudged, flushed, and dripping bits of Darkness, turned slowly toward the sky as he felt the shadow moving over his face. He was, after all, Keeper of the Shadows, and he felt the cool shade move over his face like a breath of fresh air on his fevered skin. A dim, bemused smile crossed his face. And, in the presence of the soothing shade, began to move slowly toward it, partly staggering, partly crawling, and partly stumbling over the ground like a dying animal.

And in reality, that was what he was. The indescribable fear of death in an immortal's mind was waning as his body went into a certain numbness and all he tried to feel was the cool shelter of shadow. He moved forward with agonizing slowness, stumbling and having to stand himself up again over and over, but the numbed, blissful expression he wore never changed.

A certain time later, when the sun crawled contentedly beneath the rim of the earth and the heavenly glow faded, the parking lot showed another sign of life. The sound of an approaching motorcycle quieted as it slowed and rolled into the lot between the motionless lines of cars. For a moment, the engine rumbled idly, as the rider sat upon it, uncertain where to turn next, and it quickly began to make a line straight for the tower. As it went passed parked car after parked car, it finally came to a lane of empty blacktop that curved around to the doors and the rider slammed on the brakes abruptly. He quickly tore the helmet from his head in order to stare more clearly at the sight before him that sat calmly beneath a planted tree in a grassy median.

He sat between the bumpers of two parked cars, a small patch of divinity beneath the shade of a young tree in a bustling metropolis in a technology-dominated future. Smiling blissfully at him from the distance, the Angel of Death seemed to be secluded in his own little realm, centuries from this city, and it felt like only Heero could truly see him. He remained motionless on his motorcycle and just stared, not sure if the deity lay dead in the shade, smiling at something he could no longer see. And all around him, like a divine aura, hung a thin mist of black.

He opened his mouth to call out, found it fearfully dry, and spoke around the lump in his throat. "Shini?"

Hardly moving at all, the only sign of life was the demonic tail that weakly began to thump against the dirt, covered in a string of flame and the new warmth in his distant violet eyes. As if to say, "Yes, I'm still kicking," he hiccuped once.

The fear passed and Heero quickly jumped off _Youkai _to rush toward the dying deity. As he came closer, he could see just how badly the disease had waged its war on him. He was pale, bleak, and cloudy-eyed. The thin black stain running down from his lips was evaporating and he hardly moved. As Heero knelt before him, putting a hand cautiously on his shoulder, he did nothing but smile gently at him, soaking in the comfort the shadow and his husband's presence brought him.

"Shini—" Heero said, almost breathless and uncertain of even what to ask. "H-how are you?"

He smiled back. "He is better, now," he answered with a chuckle. "But he's not great."

"Yeah, I know," he answered with his own little nervous laugh, "that was a stupid question. You look as bad as you feel, I'll bet." But the humor had to make room for concern and he quickly put his hand to Shini's forehead, and it nearly burned his skin. He recoiled, shaking his fingers from the pure heat, and Shini was so distant and numbed that he paid it no attention.

"_Teishu_, he is very tired and he doesn't really want to see any more of Tokyo, and Tokyo doesn't want to see any more of him, alright? So let's go home," he murmured wearily. His eyes widened slightly and the slivers of fear were growing more visible, no longer hidden by a vacant smile. "You'll take him home, right?"

"Of course I will," Heero promised him immediately, in turn struck and frightened by the expression on the Shinigami's face. The skin even beneath his hand was beginning to warm up to a feverish height and his face continued to pale and flush with an eerie blue-violet tone from his blood. Before he could open his mouth again, to sooth him in order to help usher him onto _Youkai_'s back, Shini leaned forward and pressed his face into Heero's collarbone, holding onto the clothes at his side with weak fingers.

He groaned, muttered something vaguely in Latin, and sought to curl up in his shadow, against his skin. "Please—Heero? He just wants to go home."

While he clung to his husband, the black mist was thickening in the air around him and his entire body was beginning to feel much like an emptying drainage pipe sucked dry by a punishing summer. His tail, still aflame, thudded weakly on the grass as the strength to do so ebbed away.

The mortal had to resist the urge to put his arms around Shini's back and carry him to the motorcycle, to get back to the house as quickly as possible, but he forced himself to sit the Angel of Death back up. His head weakly rolled back with the movement, his eyes barely open. His arms were limp and acted almost boneless. Heero gently shook him, urging him, "You stay awake. You hear me, Shini? Don't fall asleep. You need to take this before you can think about falling asleep on me."

Now very sleepily perturbed, his closing eyes squinted tightly. "Mnnnhhh—why not, _Teishu_?"

"You need this. Trust me," he answered, taking one arm away to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the tiny gold vial that had, only a few hours ago, been sitting in a market bazaar in a reality neatly buried beneath the Japanese soil. It had passed through the brutal claw of an _oni_ before coming to rest in Heero Yuy's pocket. He brought it up to his mouth and pulled out the cork with his teeth. He lifted the Shinigami's hand from where it lay motionless on the grass and curled his fingers around the vial, telling him to drink it.

When his fingers slackened feebly and he groaned, stubborn to anything but sleep in his husband's arms, Heero picked it back up and gave the drowsy, divine face a stern look. "You'll be sleeping on the couch at this rate," he threatened, though the sickly thing was to weak to really respond. "Now, drink this, please. You need it and I didn't go through all the trouble of finding it, and finding you for it go to waste."

Shini's face screwed up again. "Fine, fine," he mumbled, lifting his heavy head from Heero's arm. He licked his dry lips and reached for the little glass container again. He felt it press against his mouth and tasted the familiar sweetness of immortal food, the sickeningly sugary taste that he'd been raised on, partly the reason he had so heavily coveted mortal cuisine, so diverse in every corner of the world. For a second, he resented it, and peeked open a heavy eyelid to see if Heero was looking, wanting to spit it out, but realized that he was the one who'd caused the trouble in the first place and swallowed it obediently.

Once he was done, reacquainted with the substandard taste he'd always known, he sighed and was quick to clamp back onto Heero's chest. "He has eaten all of his vegetables, Heero," he said firmly, insisting that he should be free to sleep now. His head rested against his collarbone, and he could hear the thudding of the mortal's impermanent heart beating in his chest. It was a perfect lullaby, as far as he was concerned, for he was nearly asleep as soon as he leaned into him.

"No, no, Shini," Heero told him gently. "Not just yet. Just wait until we get back home, then you can sleep all you want. Just stay awake until then. To be safe."

Shini snorted against his skin. "Silly mortal. Worried about a god dying," Shini whispered, breaking into an exhausted yawn.

"Yeah, well, that's not as farfetched as you think, Shini," Heero mumbled, more to himself than anything, for the God of Death he cradled to him was defiantly falling asleep against his chest. He decided that he should trust that Shini could tough it out, that he'd be able to crawl back from the edge of destruction safely, but his heart still drummed as he picked him up and carried him carefully back to _Youkai._ He sat his snoring bundle down on the seat in front of him and swung his legs over, keeping the sleeping deity carefully close to him as he revved the engine again, and slipped on his helmet, concealing the wearied, adrenaline-drained smile on his face.

The sun had already stepped down from the stage and gave the heavens to the moon for the night to do with it what it would.

* * *

A/N: Eek! We're getting so close to the end, I can taste the angst in my mouth. -. Oh yes, only three or four more chapters left before this arc can be called complete and I'll have room to flex my poor carpal tunnel-ridden fingers and finish more Twelve and Barbarians in Rome. I think you'll guys will be happy to know that I've done a little sorting out, writing down, and I've made a list of priorities to finish so I can keep my writing semi-on schedule and Twelve is listed at the top and I'm determined to finish this sucker! I will...! Eventually! (and oh yeah, I made another list to sort me out, and I realized there's at least seven arcs of MSMH I want to cover. What am I, crazy?) I'm also starting on a entry for another contest, though the idea is still hazy. I'll also be writing the other idea I had for that contest, but didn't quite make it into the works, but that's probably much later in the year. Oh, and I'm extremely flattered at all the reviews I've gotten, and they're all so _nice_. Readers are more of an inspiration than I can describe. So thanks, and I gotta go. 


	26. The Arrogance of Mortals

Chapter 26

"The Arrogance of Mortals"

_He is everything you want_

_He is everything you need_

_He is everything inside of you that you wish you could be_

_He says all the right things a t exactly the right time_

_But he means nothing to you_

_And you don't know why_

"Everything You Want" – Vertical Horizon

It was sometime deep in the night when the Yuy household, long empty save for the lonely and orphaned son of Odin and Yumi, began to show signs of life again. The previous one had come a short time after sunset, as night began to slowly seep its way across the landscape. The door had rattled as Heero carefully nudged it open with his foot, carrying a sleeping body over the threshold and into the dim foyer. There he had taken on the hefty task of somehow managing to toe off his shoes without loosing his grip of the Shinigami he carried and doing it without waking the snoring deity. There was probably little that was going to wake him at this point, though.

Heero let out a sigh as he toed his shoes out of the walkway and, with a careful readjustment of weight distribution, used one arm to reach out for the light switch. As soon as those lights came on, the Shinigami made an incomprehensible grumble, presumably of protest, and buried his squinting face tighter into his chest. The mortal rolled his own eyes a little, but, with a tired smile turned them off again and lifted the sleeping body more securely into his arms. In his bare feet, Heero moved through the darkening house, past the kitchen, past the living room, up the stairs and past the bathroom door, to his own room.

There he walked quietly to the edge of his bed, unmade from that morning when he'd jumped out of bed at a terrible late hour, rushing to get to work. Shini had worked in his sleep to manage an arm around Heero's neck, and as soon as it became obvious to him, even in his drowse, that he was going be put down, he stubbornly jammed his face tighter against whatever part of Heero he could reach. Even his thin, whip-like tail managed to weakly flutter up and wrap around his wrist once as Heero prepared to set him down on the foot of the bed.

Heero smirked with a shake of his head and continued anyway. But it was useless. As soon as he felt himself being lowered, he threw the other arm around his back. Heero tried again, but found Shini wedging his head between his arm and his side, as if trying to slither around him to avoid the bed altogether.

Finally, he spoke up, but still whispered. "Shini—knock it off, please."

He sleepily smacked his lips and snuggled closer as a defiant answer appropriate for his slumberous state.

"If I can't _put _you down, I'm going to half to drop you, you know," Heero warned him.

"Fine, fine," came the grumble in reply.

Finally, he managed to get the convalescing, snoring thing to let loose his stubborn grip on him and the Angel of Death sat on the edge of his bed, hair matted, eyes closed and swaying sleepily. The young mortal kneeled close, making sure he didn't pitch forward. In the dimness of the room the thin line of dried Darkness oil trailing down from his lip looked like blood, and Heero reached out to wipe it off. It disappeared at his mortal touch with a hiss of mist and Shini sleepily pawed at his skin where it had been, eyes still closed securely. He looked as if he was sleeping sitting up, teetering precariously from side to side, and an amused, silent smile spread across the mortal's face.

The paint-stained tank top that he'd borrowed out to the deity was now also stained with Darkness oil and probably ruined, so he stood up, steadied the sleeping body, and asked Shini to lift his arms. Without much protest, he did so, and Heero peeled off the stained shirt and tossed it into the hamper sitting in the corner.

"_Ne_, _Teishu_, when did you open the window?" Shini grumbled as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to preserve heat.

"My window doesn't open, Shini," he answered with an amused smile.

"Oh... 's always this cold on your mortal nights?"

"Sometimes."

"Why's it got to be tonight, _Teishu_?" he grumbled.

With his eyes weighed down by heavy anvils of desperately needed sleep, Shini could only sense when Heero stepped away, taking his body heat away with him while he walked to the other side of the room. The sound of a drawer being opened came to his drowsy senses and a few seconds later, the mortal had returned and had with him a large pajama shirt, which he tossed into the Shinigami's lap.

"Nnnhh, _Teishu_. He doesn't want to—"

"Be cold? Then put it on," Heero told him firmly, quietly. He stood in front of the drowsy, swaying thing and watched the expression of protest and sleepy aggravation twist and turn on his face, all while his eyes remained sealed securely. The verdict was that of refusal, and the young God of Death groaned in response, laid down on the bed, and curled up into the rumpled blankets.

"Fine. If you don't want to take it—" he whispered and bent down to take it back.

But as soon as he had begun to turn around, he felt a handful of clutching fingers snatch it again and pull it out of his hand. The Shinigami quickly wrapped an arm around the baggy green shirt and held it protectively, like a security blanket or stuffed animal. After a second, he took a deep breath, inhaling the distant scent of his mortal husband slightly faded by repeated washing but still very worth the effort, and let it out with a content, drowsy smile. Heero realized he just would not win, shrugged, and let it go.

The process of actually getting Shini to get up on the bed so that the blankets could get drawn over him was another battle waged between the wakeful mortal and the half-dreaming god. After a little skirmish, he finally got the Shinigami to part with the comfort of lying twisted up in the covers long enough for Heero to pull them out from under him and over him instead. But getting him to move to the actual top of the bed would prove impossible, in the end, and Heero defeatedly pulled the pillow down to where he had curled up into a bundle of blankets and warm, silken robes and nudged Shini's head upon it. By then, he had lost the ability to keep conscious at all and had passed out into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The mortal stood beside the bed after all had been done and the Shinigami slept soundly and safely, looking down on the God of Death lying there and wondering if he even knew that it was his husband's bed. He'd given it to him out of consideration—he didn't want him crawling out of bed sometime in the middle of the night to sneak into his room in his state, though it looked like he would have been far too exhausted to do such a thing. He looked like might sleep for a century or two; his breathing was so slow and calm he could barely hear it and his body appeared stone still. That was good, Heero thought. Then he might be able to get some rest of his own.

He watched Shini sleep for a minute more, absently toying with the tip of a long strand of hair that hung over the edge of the bed. Then he bent down to give him a kiss on the forehead that went unnoticed. He stood back up, still holding on to that lock of hair with a hand, and sighed. "Well, I guess it might be better if you don't hear my goodbye," he admitted in a whisper to the sleeping deity, before slowly pulling himself from the bedside and to the open doorframe. He closed the door as quietly as he could and went down the stairs into the dark and motionless house.

It was sometime later that there would be another sign of life, and it would come barreling in through the front door.

Heero was sitting in the armchair in the living room when he heard the furious sound of footfalls coming through the foyer. The only source of light was that of the dimmed hallway light and it flickered when his late-night visitor stopped in the archway of the living room, her breathing ragged and enraged like that of a cornered or threatened animal, ready to tear to shreds whatever would threaten her precious offspring. Heero, who had been carefully flexing his hands in the shadows, trying to recreated the trick he had been taught only the night before, calmly put his hand down and stood up to face his newly-arrived problem. It was definitely read to face him.

The Goddess of Love at one in the morning was not quite as attractive as the mythology spawned about her would suggest. She stood beneath the dim light in a bathrobe that came loosely down around her knees, her wet and stringy blonde hair lay around her face in tangles, and what little make-up she'd managed to apply had been smeared. In short, she looked like she'd passed out in a cheap motel room and come storming into his house afterwards. But the absolutely vicious and contemptuous look she pinned on him told him that this was indeed no fun and games of any sort, and he had better watch himself very carefully. As much as he doubted the deity's competency and common sense at times, he was very aware that as a god she wielded the power to ruin his life and give him fates worst than death.

And she was currently very pissed off. At him, no less.

Her entire body tensed and ready to rip the head from this arrogant mortal if he so much as twitched in a displeasing manner, she growled out at him, "What did you do to him?"

Heero stood calmly in the dark living room. His face was the picture of self-possession as he answered. "He's just fine."

"Don't give me any of your damn lip—tell me what you did to him!" she snapped at him immediately, a fire burning in her expression that threatened to blaze out of control. "And if I sense you're lying to me at any time, you'll find yourself roasting in hellfire so fast you'll head will spin, Arrogant Mortal."

"Keep it down. He's upstairs sleeping."

Her aggravated, dissecting look told him blatantly that she didn't buy it in a very seething manner. Her mouth twisted up and she spat out another accusation at him. "You let him die, didn't you," Iria hissed, as rigid as a knife blade and looking ready to cut into the vulnerable young mortal.

His only physical response was a firm, blue-eyed stare. "No," he said plainly, "he's upstairs, sleeping, like I said. Go up and see if you don't believe me."

"If you've lied to me, I'll—"

"I can guess what you'll do to me," Heero finished for her with an annoyed sigh, even taking the liberty to roll his eyes at this deity's fiercely stubborn protectiveness, though she was more intent on chewing him out than actually checking up on her son's well-being.

Daggers flashed in her eyes, and she was very threatening even in a rumpled bathrobe, but she still slunk away toward the stairs. Her eyes told him venomously not to move, not even to think in a displeasing way while she went to validate his claim. He was very aware of her nonverbal threats, and he stood in the hallway, folding his arms as he waited. The Goddess of Love came back down the stairs with an unchanged expression of contempt, but she was at least pacified a little that her son was going to be fine. Her mood wouldn't get any worse now, hopefully. The two now stood at a dueling length from each other, both their tempers set on short fuses. The only difference was that Iria's had already been lit, and she was the first to speak up.

"You gave him the antidote or whatever?" she asked tensely, jabbing a finger at him, demanding absolute and whole truth from him.

Heero's face remained as indifferent as it had been when she had first burst through the door. With the dark circles hanging below his eyes, all he really wanted to do was get this confrontation over with and get some sleep. "Yes."

"And he's been getting better?"

"Yes."

Still skeptical and wary of him, if not just a little contemptuous, she squinted at him discriminatorily. "You've been checking him? You didn't just throw him in there and hope he made it, did you? You wouldn't do that to my son, right?"

"No, I wouldn't. Every hour I check in and he's still dead asleep," Heero answered dutifully, adding a sigh at the end. It made the raggedy deity narrow her eyes dangerously again at the ill-chosen adjective and only made the poor, tired mortal even more exasperated with this whole situation. It was now that Iria decided it would be best to get into Heero's face and drill him mercilessly for the collective body of wrong he'd committed against her poor, innocent son, to which he interrupted with a tone of incredulity, "Innocent? Have you seen him?"

"Are you trying to insinuate that my Shini isn't innocent? Totally harmless?" she blurted out bluntly, in a tone of voice that echoed through the quiet house. "He wouldn't hurt a fly if it bit him on the nose. Have _you _seen him? I mean, you look at him, but you always see trouble, a nuisance, a _problem_, don't you?"

"Only when he becomes one," Heero answered coldly, trying to maintain his position as the levelheaded one in this argument.

"I can't believe you! This is exactly what I mean," the taller goddess told him in loud exasperation. "You've either got a heart of stone or none at all! How can you say such things about Shini? He teases you because he likes you—he tries to seduce you because he loves you, and hell, if I went for mortal men anymore, I'd be damn well trying it too!"

The frustrating yelling seemed only to sufficiently ruffle his feathers, and in the atmosphere created, he couldn't help it to find an edge creeping into his voice as he defended his character from a woman in a bathroom and smeared makeup. "I never asked for any of this," he answered firmly. "And I never asked for him, so I don't see why you're getting so upset with me."

"Oh," Iria sassily returned, "don't try to bullshit me, Heero Yuy. Since when have you known what your really wanted? When you were young, you used to wish that you had the house all to yourself, that you could live without your parents' rules—and when they died, you got your wish. You also cried all night and for years afterward you'd wake up screaming at night. Now what? You live in the dark and take pictures and get lonely and get ready to die! You were happy when Shini came, even if you were too stuck up to see it for yourself!"

Dangerous blue eyes settled on hers; his composure had splintered finally. "I never want to hear you say another word about my parents again."

"Well, too bad! Because you're going to be miserable until you join them, and even then you'll have a heart of stone, Mr. Unlovable!"

Heero's face contorted as he tried to contain his temper. "Get out."

"No, I'm not finished with you," she asserted, pressing the matter by extending a long-nailed finger in his souring Asian face. "I'm not even started on how little I'm beginning to think you really deserve Shini. Why, if I had known what a self-important, self-absorbed, unemotional, ungrateful son of a bitch you were going to be when I gave you a reason to be happy, I would have just put your sad, lonely ass out of misery and skipped this altogether!"

"I said," came the final growl, "_get out_."

"Frankly, Shini deserves someone who can love him, not sneer at him every other minute, not snap at him because he simply cannot help himself, not a brat like you!"

"Then why don't you go find him, since it's apparently not me? Stop wasting your time on me, stop lying to me and manipulating my life, and just leave me the hell alone!" Heero snapped back fiercely, incredibly irritated by the Goddess of Love's loud and accusing tone and aching to finally get himself some rest.

"You know what? I'd _love _to, but I can't! You're the one Shini wanted, and I actually care about the poor thing's feelings, so I have no choice!"

"Whoever said that I cared about him?"

Iria gaped scandalously at him and was in the right mind to outright slap him for his insolence and cold-heartedness. "You—you cold-blooded jerk! If Shini ever heard that, you know it'd break his heart. But, what would you know about emotions or love?—You absolute vacuum of a human being!"

"I said that I don't care!" he shouted finally, infuriated by one too many insults against his family and against himself to keep his temper boiling inside him.

"Oh, no," she scoffed. "No way! I'm sick to death of your bullshit, and you'd better just listen to me—"

But his sentiment was final, and completely unchangeable as far as he was concerned. He'd been toyed with by the gods, hunted by demons, tempted by angels more in the last few days that the entire human race had seen collectively for a thousand years. And Heero Yuy was one who was not going to tolerate it, not being deceived, not being perpetually insulted, not being coerced into marriage. His face went stony, the scowl returned, and he became the same lonely, stubborn man he'd been before, the only thing he'd known. "—No. I said I don't care. Take him. Just take him and get the hell out of my house. Go find him some other poor fool to keep him because I refuse to for another day!"

The one known as Aphrodite gaped at him as if he had just driven a stake through her chest, but Heero stared back, currently unremorseful, and watched the expression of shock and betrayal and disbelief run across her face. The argument had begun to take on a hazy, unreal feeling—a drama that he was only watching from a distance—and he had not really thought of the consequences until Shini let out a bewailing moan from the stairwell, choking back a sob. And suddenly he felt the curtain come down on him and the lights dimmed, until on the reality remained that he was seeing the Shinigami sitting on the darkened stairs, trying desperately not to cry, and it was solely because of him. He suddenly felt sickness he couldn't describe—which was guilt.

He should have been asleep was all he could think, besides the feeling of his own wretchedness just beneath that. He shouldn't have woken up—he wouldn't of! How long had he been there, just watching their argument? Heero felt the guilt and the shame of a father caught screaming at his wife with a teary-eyed child watching from the doorway, not daring to make a sound. Conveniently, words had left him, and Iria remained silent, still shocked, so he was forced to watch Shini's face contort horribly.

He bit violently down on his bottom lip to keep himself from letting out the tears, the sobs that were forming, and those divine violet eyes ran like fountains nonetheless. The young God of Death had been sitting timidly on the steps, his knees close to his chest, and when he staggered up from the step, not breaking eye contact with his mortal husband, Heero saw that he still had that ratty old shirt clutched in his hand. And he kept it as he began his slow decent down the stairs, barefoot, still feverish, and sniffling. As he came further into the light, he also saw that his wings had grown back into their natural span, but there were shocking lengths of bare bone, bleach white, and the black feathers that had returned were scattered, ragged, unusable. It was like someone had bashed him into the ground and tore them out by the handful.

Both Iria and Heero remained frozen; their next moves teetered on what Shini's reaction would be. The tension that filled the air would have broken a knife blade if it had to cut, at least to the mortal, who felt the guilt pounding a stake through his heart when Shini came to a stop in front of him and just looked into his eyes. Reading them, trying to find what he had done so wrong written there

He had stopped sniffling to await another word from his precious _Teishu_, but his face still gleamed with saline, his eyes were still wide and wounded, and he was still silent. And when Heero didn't respond, for whatever reason, that face didn't break into wails and uncontrollable tears, as he would have thought—he just _wilted_ and looked away. The mortal blinked speechlessly and before he had even fully begun to register what had happened, the Shinigami let his chin fall and walked across the wood paneled floors without another noise, straight past his mother, until he reached the door at the end of the hall. Then he just stood there, head drooping, tattered wings gleaming dimly under the dim light, and waited. His tail was lifeless, swinging at his calves.

Iria turned her head around again to see Heero watching the deity distantly, his lips numb and his mind unable to just fully grasp what he'd done just yet but rather fearing the looming shape of it. She looked coldly at him and only said, "Rot in Hell, Heero Yuy. Rot with your entire wretched family." She turned and walked down the hallway as well with a scornful rhythm in her step.

Shini reached up to the coat rack without moving his head and cradled the balled-up cloak to his chest. He then passed noiselessly through the door, his pitch-black robes blending into the shadow, and disappeared. His mother followed suit a few moments later and they were abruptly gone. Gone. As abruptly as they had come into his life, the Goddess of Love and her son, The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami, became just another mythology.

There went another family, some cruel part of his brain said distantly.

And a few minutes later, when Heero Yuy shook off his paralysis, he would open the door only to be greeted by the sleeping darkness of his neighborhood, dozing peacefully. He would shut it, and he would walk numbly back to the living room to sit down on the couch. The last thing he would before he rolled over and forced himself to sleep, facing the cushions, not realizing that that faint aroma in the air was that of cinnamon, would be the single light on in the house across the street. And an hour later, the old man who had been reading to it would turn off the switch and go back to the bed where his wife slept.

* * *

A/N: ... well, is there much to say after _that? _I'm going to do this very quickly--I don't want to be here when the tomatos and various produce starts flying, now do I? Okay, going to go work on Twelve now, Barbarians will be a while in coming, you can guess, but don't give up on it! The next chapter of Shini... well, that's just a given if I want to live, right? I'm so sorry Shini--you poor, poor baby! Just when everything looked rosy... Hug But that's the way it goes, and that's the way it was written. Don't give me those puppy eyes, young man. I'll update soon, I promise! Ciao. And P.S., this chapter was written almost entirely to _Everything You Want _by Vertical Horizon and _Antics _by Interpol. 


	27. Mythos

Chapter 27

"Mythos"

With the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami's wings in the wretched state they were the modes of transportation were limited to by way of cloud. And with that expression on his face, his mother didn't trust him to take the walk from realm to realm without either breaking down where he stood or turning tail and running back to his heartless _Teishu _to beg hopelessly for acceptance, for forgiveness for no real crime he had committed. And that was exactly what Iria didn't want him to do—crawl on his knees back to a mortal who would only degrade him, one who wouldn't accept him as he was, imperfections and all. He would go back, she knew, given the choice, if only to lessen the pained throb of his heart enough so that it didn't consume him. But he couldn't. She was trying to show him that no mortal man, no matter how unmistakably beautiful or charming, no matter how absorbing or distinguished, was worth it if he wouldn't give her son the undivided and unconditional love and care he very well deserved. No matter how much he cried over his loss, no matter how many days he would spend pouting and staring at the skies with longing, no matter how frightfully he fought it, Iria wouldn't allow it.

No matter how long it took him to move on, even. _That _was what was bothering the Goddess of Love as she watched her most beloved son sit on the back of their transporting cloud, his feet hanging over the side, staring dejectedly at his toes as he swung his legs quietly. Whatever mood took Shini, it never took long for that face to shift back into his usual warm and affectionate smile, for his wandering eye to come across something new to investigate and his mischief to wreck its usual havoc. Since they had left the mortal's house in Tokyo, he had barely moved his mouth but to answer his mother's direct questions with a meek, "Yes," or "No." It was quite frankly beginning to unnerve her.

Around them, the cloud-dotted heavens were slowly turning violet and in the distance Iria could see the familiar pink skies of Valentine. It may have been the longest way to transition from the realms, but it was the safest, considering her son's emotional state. Shini wouldn't be doing any flying for at least a few more days, and she'd be sure to see to that.

But for now, he sat silently at the back of the spacious cloud, wings tenderly curled up, robes billowing softly as he hung his legs over the side, his long hair brought over his shoulder serving as a source of comfort. He held onto it as if he would break if he let go and stared out into the endless blue surrounding them. It was obvious that he was not going to make a peep, and Iria decided this was a good of time as ever to speak up of what lay ahead of them. Though she never would've revealed this to anyone, the Arrogant Mortal had put them in more of a difficult way than they had been before—now she would have to report into Hades again with an unqualified caretaker, and his patience was all but spent.

"We'll probably be heading off to Hell tomorrow, so I want you to stay out of trouble in Valentine, alright? Just for a day—you can play with Nadette if you like. I'm the one who signs her checks, remember, if she doesn't want to," the Goddess of Love rattled off, standing at the other end of the cloud, in her bathrobe still. She absently examined her nails as she continued. "And after that, we can start looking for somewhere new to stay. I'm going to try to see if they'll let you stay in one of the higher circles of Hell—everyone's pretty nice up there. You won't have to deal with any more of those self-important, boorish mortals again. Won't that be nice, Shini?"

He only vaguely grunted a response, too preoccupied with his own thoughts to really hear anything she said. It seemed to just fade away into the noise of the wind to him and he blinked slowly at the whimsical white clouds they passed as the one they rode bustled along of its own supernatural energy. He realized that his mother was talking, but he paid it no attention.

While staring blankly at the skies, he suddenly had an idea, and cautiously opened up the palms of his hands in front of him. He kept them close to his body in secrecy as a little, faint orb of darkness formed between them. Without glancing over his shoulder to see if his mother was watching, he squinted a little, trying to bend the shadow to conform to his will as his fingertips turned cold. With so much sunshine, it was much harder to find shadow to pull from the air. With the changing of night to day, the levels of shadow and light shifted, but were always balanced. He bit at his lip in concentration, finding it difficult in his sick state to perform the trick with the same ease he had before. He hoped it would pass, and finally a tiny black daisy-shape hovered between his fingertips.

Shini's tongue peeked out as he concentrated heavily on the shadow flower to make it tangible. He felt his skin flushing with the effort and his fingertips stinging coldly—it'd never been this difficult before. Finally, he could reach up and grab it. It was ice cold, but he hardly noticed it, with that same Darkness pulsing in his fingertips, which helped him sculpt the ethereal thing into reality. Smiling weakly to himself at the accomplishment, he picked up the flower. Around it glowed a thin layer of pure light from where the shadow had been drawn.

Shini looked down at the purely black daisy he'd created and lifted the other hand to pick off the first petal. It came off in his fingertips, but as soon as he tossed it into air it dissipated back into the air. He was told that once he was fully matured, he'd be able to actually keep shadow figures solid and do much more than he could even imagine, but it seemed so far off. How long had he before he was fully-grown? How much longer would he be the weakest of the Shinigami, how long would he have to worry about his safety in the presence of demons?

It seemed like forever, but for now he occupied his worry in the form of the little black flower.

"He means it, he means it not…" he uttered under his breath as he pulled the petals one by one and threw them into the wind. Behind the traveling cloud there could be seen a trail of tiny black petals, ones that dissolved in midair, leaving a little hazy trail that also soon disappeared.

Iria stood at the other end, still rattling on about the atrocious wrong exacted on Shini and how she was going to make sure he never had to fall into the hands of a caretaker—she was going to be damned if she wasn't going to get him back into Hell, where he belonged. No more of this foolish mortal business. She glanced over her shoulder, currently in the middle of explaining that humans had been made short-lived and foolish for a reason and that was to stress the superiority and wisdom of divinity, to see that Shini was mumbling to himself and he was tossing something off the cloud. She stalked over to stare over his shoulder and gaped as she realized what he was doing.

"He means it… he means it not… he means it—"

"Shinigami!" she snapped at him. Before he even knew it, she had reached down and taken the precious, half-naked flower from him. It crumbled like sand in her hand and she opened her fingers for the wind to take it, a severe expression coming across her face. "Young man, you know that you can't be playing games. Not in the state you're in—it's out of the question! That's just wasting the energy you need to get well. Do you want to get the Drains again? Don't remember what that felt like?"

A little wounded, he only stared down at his toes again and nodded obediently. After that, he remained silent.

"You have to understand, Shini. I don't want to you to go back to such a jerk. You can depend on him to never change, that's for sure. He doesn't deserve you," she said firmly, stubbornly keeping her face stern. Frustrated, but still pitying of her unfortunate, heart-broken son, she turned back to her post at the other side of the spacious cloud, watching the features of Valentine draw closer.

Meanwhile, her son brooded quietly. The last petal's meaning remained heavy on his mind and he wondered hopelessly what would have been the final prediction. But he kept his head hung and fiddled silently with his fingers while his wings went through the slow and uncomfortable process of re-growing feathers. With a sigh, the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami curled his toes in the air and was uncharacteristically quiet all the way into the warm pinks and reds of his mother's realm of business with a million thoughts coursing his mind.

* * *

Once inside the office, Shinigami found himself sitting obediently in the stiff waiting chair while his mother went insider her room—once again clean and free of broken furniture—and with little more to do but to either continue his cheerless staring or fiddle with his fingers in his lap. He felt stiffly self-conscious all of a sudden, always watching what he was doing, dimly wondering if Heero would scowl at him for it, what he would think of him now. He'd never been so sensitive to the slightest move before, fumbling to ignore when he knew he was probably acting impatient, being immature, looking downcast. He also knew when the secretary's eyes landed on him and he tensed up not to make a stupid move under her gaze. 

Nadette sat innocently at the desk just outside Iria's desk, calmly filing and organizing the drawers, but she stopped every now and again in her work to look up to the God of Death who sat against the wall in an uncomfortable chair. His mother had ordered him to remain there, not making a move towards the door or anywhere vaguely in the direction of Tokyo, and then sequestered herself in her office to make the unpleasant call to Hades breaking the news of the loss of their most-promising candidate for caretaker.

He would not be happy at all, and his reaction would shape her son's future; whether he lived an eternally lonesome life in Limbo, or returned to his former home in Hell all depended on his ruling. He had been the one to banish her son from Hell in the first place and condemn them to searching for a suitable mortal home that would only last for a matter of years before they were forced into searching again. There was little chance that their struggle would end happily. She knew that the odds of Shini even seeing Hell again were slim, but she was going to damn well fight for it.

The secretary watched Shini remain motionless for a second, then sighed, straightened up the pile of papers in her hands and looked away. He would do nothing but stare at his toes and nervously toy with his fingers and he had barely spoken a word since he had stepped foot inside the door, except to say, "Yes, _Okasan_," when she asked him if he'd be able to sit still while she was working. To see that vibrant face without even a trace of a smile was very sad, indeed, and the more she looked at him, the more she was reminded of the way he had looked at the mortal when he had eased his fears just before heading to the underground market.

The more she realized just how attached he was to him, and from her superior's sullen glare and Shini's passionless face, the more she felt sympathy, but was too shy to express it outright. She decided that it was the best she could do to give him his space and she kept on unobtrusively with her work. She bent down in her chair to picked up the manila folder that she had dropped on the floor next to her desk one moment, with the Shinigami sitting silently in the chair across the room, and when she had sat back up, straightening up the file papers, he was simply not there anymore.

She'd seen this situation before, and Nadette stood up abruptly from her seat, again almost knocking her chair down behind her. Out of her throat came a strangled sound of surprise, but as soon as she had moved, she saw something dark out of the corner of her eye tense up at her start. She turned her head and saw the Shinigami standing timidly before the bookcase in the corner, his hand drawing away from the book he had been reaching for.

She blinked sheepishly, blushing a little that she'd been so jumpy. "Oh, there you are," she said quietly, smoothing out her skirt as she sat back down. "I thought—no, never mind. I'm sorry to have startled you."

"No, it's alright," Shini answered in the same quiet, humble tone. He stood there, motionless, until she turned back around, still straightening out her hair and blouse, to reach up again. He then quickly pulled one from the shelf, one of the few books with Japanese _hiragana_ running down the spine among the other languages. But this was the Goddess of Love's office. No one had touched those books for centuries on end and sudden movement the Angel of Death caused disturbed the massive amount of dust that had built up over those years.

A cloud promptly fell upon him and he fell back a step, opening his mouth and letting out a loud, arresting sneeze that made a few more books slide and fall and made Nadette jump in her seat again, though this time she managed to remain _in _it. "Oh," she said breathlessly, holding one hand over her chest where it felt her heart had tried to shoot out of her throat. He was about to open his mouth to apologize again, she could tell, and instead just said, "It's alright. Please, just sit down."

Shini nodded, burning with the self-conscious shame that came along with his downtrodden mood, and picked up the books. He couldn't actually read much more than Japanese, so the Italian and German and French titles that had fallen bewildered him as to where they belonged. So he glanced over his shoulder, saw that the blonde secretary had fortunately turned around, and just shoved them back in a random order. But one remained tucked under his arm when he went back to the chair. Nadette, who was quite aware that he had taken one, peered up from her work to see what it was. She knew he probably would hide it if he knew she looked—he was in a rather tender mood, after all.

But to read? And to read a Japanese guide to English? But he already knew how to speak the language well enough, she supposed. She was curious, and she watched the Shinigami tilt his head and make slight faces at some of the kanji he didn't recognize, but she re-immersed herself in her work quickly. She kept wondering, however, and thought reading an English book was one of the oddest ways of coping with the loss of a loved one. Not that she would speak up, though.

* * *

In another world, Heero Yuy was waking up to the obnoxious combination of sunlight scolding his eyes and an unanswered and impatient phone scolding his ears for not immediately attending to it. In return, he dragged himself from the couch to get up, traveled to the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall, shrilling at him, and yanked out the cord. It died in mid-ring. Determined not to be disturbed by any outside force and still a little riled up from the events of last night, he walked back to the couch in the living room. He flopped back down to fall back to sleep—he'd already set it in his mind that he was not going to go to work today, to hell with all consequences. The idea of quitting the job had already come to mind, but he would have time to think about that later. 

Laying on his side and shoving his arm under the pillow, Heero closed his eyes again but they opened only a minute later. He took in a deep breath and his scowl returned. He finally realized that it smelt of the Shinigami, of that odd cinnamon scent and taste he had, and that fully discontinued any desire to go back to sleep on the couch. It only reminded him of the last few days, reminded him of how much his world had been turned on its ear. Hell, before last week, Heero had been skeptical of the existence of ghosts and days later he was coming out of a failed marriage to a god. The issue of divine existence was something human beings had grappled with for all of eternity, and the battle between which religion was the correct one had caused more conflict and wars than was countable. And here was a twenty-five year old boy who just had the answer to all those struggle thrown at him, and he hadn't even been looking for it! It was too much to try and just accept, and Heero would rather have nothing to do with it. He'd been _fine_, no matter what anyone told him, before all this and he was intent on returning to his previous, level headed life.

With a sigh, he stood up and went meandering for the stairwell. He might as well take a shower and get cleaned up if he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. No sense just lying there, going over something that was done and over with in his head again and again.

He pushed the door open to his room, his mind solely on getting clean clothes, and he stopped, instead looking at the rumpled pile of blankets lying on his bed. Only a little while ago, his godly husband would have been sleeping there, curled up in the jumbled sheets and comforter, snoring soundly. He probably would have found a way to grab the pillow and hold it against his chest as he lay on his belly, hair spilling over the side and no doubt knotted and double knotted. There would be a little trail of drool running from his lip, as he always seemed to sleep with his mouth open and let out little snoring sounds.

Heero shook his head, and it cleared his mind of the memory. Also determined not to be bothered by the past, he went to his dresser to get clean clothes. But as soon as he opened a drawer, he knew that he would only be reminded of the Shinigami again if he walked into the bathroom and his face tightened up again. He sighed and shoved the drawer shut, walking back out into the hallway empty-handed. It was then he decided that now as a good of time as any to go out riding, even though in the back corner of his mind, he knew that there were memories of the Shinigami sitting out on _Youkai_'s back—hell, he had given the motorcycle its name!

But Heero was getting sick of his husband's—well, more accurately, his ex-husband—ghost waiting for him at every turn he tried to take and he went out to the parked motorcycle, shoved the helmet over his rumpled bed-head, and revved the engine in defiance of the image of the Shinigami his mind recalled, sitting at the back, simply smiling at him, mouthing the words, "Silly mortal." He knew it wasn't really him, and he was going to get away from every memory of him in that house and he was going to stay away as long as his gas tank allowed him. As the sun was beginning another daily climb into the center of the sky, Heero Yuy was pulling out the driveway and speeding out of the neighborhood, incidentally waking the old man in the house across the street.

* * *

"Quit?" came the boss's cautious and honestly surprised response in his nasal Japanese. Skeptical and bespeckled, he squinted down at the camera that had been set on his desk and then up to his employee. "This is not like you, Yuy-_san_." 

Heero's face, which would have normally given off a telltale twitch at such a comment, only looked dully back into his. "Yes, sir," he answered. "But I'm sure of this." In fact, to prove his earnestness he began to dig through his front pocket while he still stood in front of the desk and brought out his key to the building and tossed it down beside the camera. The metal winked in the light as it slid toward Takamura, hanging on a bare ring. Again that aged face turned a skeptical look toward him, every wrinkle filling with suspicion. He left the key untouched; a sign of his refusal to believe what he was hearing and seeing.

"And where is this attitude of respect I'm hearing coming from, Yuy-_san_? I've come to expect a certain amount of hostility toward me—I may begin to miss it with my other, more soft-willed employees," he said. "I'm not sure that you are yourself today."

Again, in his mind Heero resented the comment, wondered with a little offense why everybody seemed to be an expert on him lately and more than willing to assert that strange fact. He might have made a scowl, and that would have been more normal behavior, but he just couldn't find the rage in him to even think about it. He felt exhausted and ready to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, and it was already near noon. He hadn't had breakfast and had no hunger or even an urge to eat. It just wouldn't seem appetizing today. But he knew he wasn't _not_ acting like himself—everyone was just too damn nosy.

"Whomever I might be, sir, this is my decision," he answered briefly. He hoped that it would be enough to communicate it through his superior's skull that he was final with his choice.

Those old, calculating eyes watched him, magnified by the glasses he wore, previously in the middle of reading a document before Heero had walked into his office, many hours late, and had randomly dropped his camera—Takamura's camera—on his desk with an announcement of his resignation.

"You know, Yuy-_san_," he began, folding his hands on the table in solemnity, "I'm very disappointed. You held a lot of promise in your art and you were dedicated to your work. To see you leave and give up on a great talent is a shame. But, I'm not going to order you to work for me, it's your right to quit." With one more displeased, wrinkled frown, his boss reached forward and slid the key across the desk to him, accepting Heero's proposal reluctantly.

* * *

"No, no way!" 

"Shinigami, young man, you stop right there!"

Before the resisting party could manage to stomp away from his mother, she had flung out a hand into his trailing, unbound hair and gotten a good, controlling grip. Keeping the other hand close to her chest to keep her kimono closed while the dress sprite tried to get it properly adjusted, she yanked her son, currently dressed only in pressed black, pleated, loose-fitting trousers portion of his _haori-hakama , _the traditional male kimono, and his timid dress sprite hovered a few cautious feet away. His leash quickly ran out and he twirled around to face his mother, who had a face that was just as sour for him.

"Knock it off, _Okasan_!" Shini snapped at her, reaching out to snatch back his hair. He managed this, but ended up inevitably yanking at his own scalp in the process, intensifying the disgruntled look. "Why don't you just stop? You've said it all before, alright!"

"I'm not asking you to keep track, Shini, I'm asking you to pay attention to what I tell you the first time I tell you!" she asserted, her scowl worsening the more she had to snatch back at her son, making sure he was facing her and giving her his full attention. He escaped her next lunge, but sourly relented and reluctantly paid attention, rolling his eyes at certain intervals all the while. "Now, young man, you're going to stand there and listen and you're going to get dressed! This is not a game—we will be standing before Hades himself and he's going to decide your fate, so you damn well better not look like you just rolled out of bed!"

She jabbed a finger at the ground to drive her very crucial point home, while the timid sprite worked hard looping her waist to try and finish adjusting her white kimono while she barked at her son. "And for the last time, Shinigami," she ground out firmly, "I do not want to see you pouting any more over that sad, arrogant excuse for a mortal. I gave him a chance to prove himself and he threw it away. He threw _you _away and you should find someone who can really respect you and make you _happy, _Shinigami."

He just stood silently, with a face as defiant as that that had faced her the night before, declaring himself completely detached from her son. The sprite hovered back, feeling the animosity coming off him in little thin waves of heat, and crept back, feeling something coming on. Shini stared back his mother and opened his mouth sharply, offended but keeping his voice low, "Then you don't know how he made me feel."

Iria blinked silently for a minute, her face not appearing to really take the full blunt of his emotional words, then squinted at him. "What did you just say?" she asked flatly.

"N-nothing," Shini denied, quickly taking on a flush and shifting to stare out at the expanse of blue clouds as they made their trip to the underworld where the Angel of Death had been raised. He bit at his lip and tried desperately to keep the color in his face from growing, knowing he had been caught and afraid to find out what reaction his mother would have to it. Considering the one he had received for simply picking the petals off a flower, it was not going to be pleasant. He tried to look innocent—honestly, he had never had to work so hard for it—and felt a stare running up his neck from his mother's sharp blue eyes, shadowed in bright red, nonetheless.

"Shinigami, I want you to turn around right now." Her voice was as calm as it could be, when she had caught wind of something. When Shini tried to casually look over his shoulder, she zeroed in on that thought and a crafty, vigilant expression crossed her face. "And show me your tail."

At the strange request, he tilted his head. "My tail?" he asked, and Iria's eyes flashed victoriously, the same expression of a predator spotting weakling prey stumbling through the grass.

"Ah-ha!"

A sudden, supernatural wind came whipping up from Shini's feet and caused his demonic tail to reveal itself, wrapped twice around a little hardback book taken from the dusty shelf in her office. Iria lunged forward so that she could snatch the hidden prize away from him before he had the time to react and flinch backward, his secret revealed. But his mother came away with the book and Shini's tail snapped loudly as it was pulled forcibly from around the book and he pulled back, nursing his poor appendage which was still sore from catching on fire from the Shrinks. The color he had been holding back flooded up into his face with indignant speed as his mother examined the book's spine.

"Ah, the _Japanese Guide to Simple English_, eh?" she purred dangerously, lifting an eyebrow at Shini. "Just some light reading?"

He knew she was inviting him to admit it himself, and that smug and underlying disappointed look pushed him just an inch or two too far, not to mention he could just see her thoughts, scowling at the memory of the Arrogant Mortal. So, he decided to fight it. "I can read what I want!" he declared loudly.

"And use whatever pronoun you please?" She shook her head, amused at his naivete. But she shook the book at him the next second, frowning at him. "I've told you a thousand times, Shini! You deserve so much better than him! He didn't respect you, didn't listen to you, didn't love you! And how could he—he's just a young, arrogant mortal boy. And now you think that just because you've worked on your English that he's going to welcome you back with open arms?"

"No," Shini said doggedly, scowling back at his mother.

She sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes, slapping the book into her palm. "Open your eyes, Shini! You shouldn't have to go changing for that ungrateful bastard—you're more than worthy of love just the way you are," she told him, becoming almost imploring, trying to convince her son that there would be better fish in the sea, that Heero Yuy wasn't the end-all of his romantic life. And as she looked into those violet eyes, into the face of the child she had raised through hellfire and torment, she saw only defiance, and it was very familiar to her.

"I _want_ to change," Shini said fixedly. And with that, he turned around to face the blue skies while standing on the cloud, arms folded. The dress sprite had to get back to work, still clutching the silk half-coat to go with his traditionally patterned kimono, and Iria huffed and simply threw her arms in the air, declaring that she no longer cared in her usual exasperated tone.

"Fine, I don't care! Degrade yourself for someone who you're never going to see again anyway for all I care, Shini. It's your choice! Just get dressed already! We're so close I can already smell that corpse's rotten breath," she grumbled, folding her own arms, imagining their upcoming encounter with the Lord of the Underworld and coming up with a picture that was none too pleasant. She had a gut feeling that it was just not going to go well. She wondered why she couldn't have had that sensation before she chose the Arrogant Mortal and skipped this ordeal altogether and sighed as the sprite started tightening the sash.

* * *

A/N: Oh my, the last chapter is in sight! (for this arc, anyway...) Man, it feels good to finish something! But I'm not really able to enjoy it now because I've got to start up right away on two contest entries and get going on 12 again. I probably won't get around to writing the next chapter for that until I finish the last chapter of MSMH (of this arc), so be patient. I can only do so much in a day, but I'm looking into selling my soul for a few more hours. And before I go, another little bit of playlist. Ciao! 

"Change Would Do You Good" by Sheryl Crow

"Always" & "I Miss You" by Blink-182

"Macy's Day Parade" by Green Day

"Better Now" by Collective Soul

"Possession" by Sarah McLachlin


	28. The Eighth Day

Chapter 28

"The Eighth Day"

It was more difficult to be driven from his former home the second time, to take that long, dark journey across the Acheron with an awful sensation of déjà vu hanging overhead and your toes in a thin puddle of water in the bottom of Charon's low, hollowed-out wooden boat 1. It was an experience Shinigami had hoped to never have again, but inevitably it had come, and now he sat the nearest to the bow, elbows resting on his knees and chin hanging, keeping his dispirited distance with a passion. Hiding himself behind an unnatural silent streak and his fully restored wings of black silk, the God of Death found himself once again homeless and staring into the cool, dark waters of the River of Woe, and what an appropriate name it was.

At the opposite end sat the silent mother in a pristine white kimono. She watched her son sit motionless moping and generally drooping, depressed by one blow after another. And as she watched, more and more she was starting to feel his pain. How long could he honestly stare into that damn water feeling pity for himself? It frustrated her to no end. Why he didn't just break down and cry? At least then he'd have it all out of his system and finish this ridiculous fixation on worthless mortal, she thought as she impatiently folded her arms and watched the back of his head. Twitching her lips into a frown, she managed to let out a huff of air without opening her mouth and unleashing a tirade.

She wasn't a completely heartless mother—she knew that egging Shinigami on after he'd lost his precious Arrogant Mortal and then had been denied going home again was not the best thing to do at the moment. So, the Goddess of Love held her tongue and hoped for her son's quick recovery, so that she wouldn't have to watch him mope around for days.

Behind her towered Charon himself, ferryman of the River of Woe. Tall and obscure, drenched in Reaper-like robes from head to toe, he served as the unemotional and unspeaking witness to this, guiding the boat across the water with one hidden hand wrapped around a pole as if they were taking a tour of Venice and he was their eerie gondolier.

He had been waiting silently at the shore when the misfit Angel of Death and his mother had come from Hades' main chamber in defeat, once again condemned to live a life drifting from realm to realm, never fully accepted and always longing for a better place. And what was worse, he had also warned them that if Shini could not secure a mortal caretaker of his own, then Hades would assign him one and neither him nor Iria would have absolutely any say in the selection process. Shini's face had crumpled long ago, and it only saddened a little when he heard the news. He was the first to turn around and leave, after giving the Lord of the Underworld a compulsory bow. Iria had stood fast for a few more moments, trying her best not to gape and demand an explanation, stammering to hold her tongue, and in the end simply narrowing her eyes poisonously at him, bowing stormily, and stalking out after her son. And, with one in silence, and one cursing beneath her breath, they had boarded the ferry.

The banks of the Acheron were dark and jagged walls of marbled black stone from which hung fang-like stalagmites, dripping the same black water that filled the river. They were distant and if you looked up suddenly you might catch a glimpse of something or someone moving among the shadow, of lost souls forlornly trailing the boat from the shore. Shini stared back at the skittering shadows and wondered if they felt as bad as he did, glimpsing the glowing eyes that constantly followed, blinking and pleading silently. He felt sorry for them, whoever they were.

Finally, he sighed, and dropped his gaze back down to the still, marble-black surface of the river. He cautiously reached out his hand to skim his fingertips across the top, leaving a trail of ripples behind as they moved toward the distant, misty bank on the otherside.

Eventually, Iria spoke up, her arms folded and her tone somewhat grim, though her eyes didn't quite match the sentiment as she watched her son. "So, Shini, where do you want to start looking? Now that you've gone through the Shrinks—I tried to protect you from it, though, god knows—you can hide your wings and we can stay on Earth to find your new caretaker. Where would you like to go? London? Paris? Or maybe somewhere like New York? You know, if you just work on your English just a little more, I'm sure you'd fit in just fine there."

The Angel of Death's fingertips remained skimming lightly over the water's surface and he didn't even blink, still gazing quietly out into the black gleam. That was a ridiculous question, considering how quickly Shini answered it, as if it were an obvious one. "Tokyo."

Iria's growling voice snapped back at him immediately. "Shinigami, you _know _that you absolutely _cannot_—"

Shini pulled his hand from the water and turned his head to glare over his shoulder, a face so sour and defiant she swore he had stolen it straight off the Arrogant Mortal's face, stubborn little scowl and all. "That's what I want," he asserted again, his supernatural violet eyes simmering with fire. "And that's the _only _place I want."

"You want that mortal, you mean," she replied bluntly, and received only a silent, narrowed stare in return. Her mischievous son's normally talkative jaw remained firmly set in that expression even when she returned it with a fearsome look and was compelled to get her feet by her swelling frustration and anger. "Thirteenth Son of Shinigami, young man, I have _had _it with your behavior 2! I am not going to let you go back to him! I'm not fucking dealing with him again! If you insist on defying me just one more time or even _think _about that arrogant jackass again, I'll have his memory erased so fast his little bloated head will spin clean off!" she threatened.

The shouting echoed eerily off the high, hazy ceiling of the underground cavern and every shade and lost soul lurking curiously in the water and shadows slunk away at the unwelcome noise 3. But, sitting at the bow of the low, wooden boat with his toes in cold, black water, the Angel of Death remained unaffected, wearing an expression cut from stone. He looked at his mother standing, fully ruffled, at the other end, and calmly repeated himself.

"I want to go to Tokyo."

* * *

Heero stepped through the door and listlessly shoved it shut with an arm, kicking off his shoes and letting them fall haphazardly to the floor. As the newest sigh emptied his lungs, his back slumped against the door for a moment and tilted back so that he let his aching head rest against the wood for a moment. He closed his eyes and opened them again with a dull enthusiasm. The panels of the ceiling greeted him silently, and moments after that, he became aware of an unwanted houseguest. The cinnamon smell of the Shinigami met him at the door like a lonely pet, taunting him as it brought back the same memories he had left to try and escape.

The problem was that he had to return here, and he knew how long those memories would linger in every room. Like it was possible to ever forget reaching out and being touched by divinty, possible to just shake off the encounter and forget it in a day, a month, or even a year. Discouraged by that thought, it wasn't until after he had opened all the windows, dug out all his mother's old candles from a dusty cabinet and lit them, until after he had dragged himself to his bedroom, pulled the covers from the mattress, changed every sheet and pillowcase and even flipped the mattress in hopes of getting rid of that scent that he stopped and replayed it in his head.

The problem was that he had to return here, to a house filled with ghosts and laid thick with traps of old memories. The idea of moving out hit him after he had laid down on his newly made bed and, inevitably, inhaled another deep breath of cinnamon. He lay there, his dark hair still disheveled and splayed out on the bare mattress, and consulted the ceiling overhead. "I can't leave," Heero muttered. But then he squinted and looked almost distressed. "Right?"

He sat up and consulted the rest of his soundless room, all the while inhaling more and more the scent he had so desperately tried to escape. The answer he received was an automatic no—he had grown up here and, as lonely as he had been spending his youth in empty rooms, he couldn't abandon it. His parents had lived here, and to leave was to discard their memories altogether. Eventually, he would forget. It wouldn't be the first week, or hell, even the first five years, but it would fade. He'd forget the sounds of his mother tinkering in the kitchen and his father testing _Youkai_'s growling engine out in the driveway, the exact feeling he got when he woke up in the middle of the night as a child and came downstairs to see his mother in the living room, lit up by a candle with a book in her lap, what his father had talked about with him on the roof as they looked over the neighborhood.

But he _would_ remember what Shini had said on the roof, he'd remember the warmth of his hand, the sleight of hand he'd taught him, and even the sleepy expression on his face just instants before he plummeted through a solid roof. He'd remember the exact shade of his wings, the puckered frown he'd make when he was wrong or ashamed, and the curious flicking of his tail. He'd remember the strange pattern of speech, the mischievous smiles, the impossible scent of cinnamon he carried about, the _animus ultionis_ that had tried to kill them both and what he'd been able to do—it was even possible that a mortal could forget seeing a god exercising their power, especially when it had been to save him. Long after the details of his family had faded into time, Shini would be crystal clear in his mind, he knew—and he would still exist for him in the afterlife, now that he had seen that it apparently _was_ there.

Was it even possible to escape from a god, to ever really get away, now realizing that Shini was the only one he really had left and he'd be forever haunted, unable to take a step in his house without some memory linking him to his husband and the dysfunctional family they had created. When he took a step back and removed the memory of Shini from the equation of his life, he saw an old, empty house filled only by an old, empty man waiting for Death but dreading him all the same.

He realized that he actually _missed_ the troublesome devil—and he'd probably never see him again. That was the point when he felt his stomach drop out from under him and the full force of his mistake hit home. He let out a sigh as he bent grievously forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he fisted his hands in his hair and cursed himself out for his stupidity, feeling a headache coming on strong. _More like a freight train_, he thought sourly to himself.

Heero Yuy moved like a ghost through his house for the remainder of the afternoon, without rhyme and without reason, only occupying his body while his mind sequestered itself to think over just what he had done, and to cope with the growing sense of lonesomeness that came with it. His headache leveled off after some time to just a steady discomfort and he wasn't about to let it get out of control. He stuffed his laundry hamper full and left it. He half-heartedly made and ate instant noodles and left the bowl in the sink, only half-finished. The coffee machine sputtered; he shut it off. The noise in the neighborhood swelled when a couple living nearby could be heard arguing; he trudged mechanically about, closing the windows. A dog barked loudly from across the street at nothing people could see; Heero wandered to the living room with a drained expression and looked out the window and watched the old man stagger outside at the obtrusive sound.

Bent cruelly by time and mocked by old age, he was a crooked old man, his shoulder and back forevermore out of alignment and awkwardly hunched. He came out in the narrow yard where the mixed dog trotted back and forth, kept on a short chain. His wispy remains of hair encamped over each ear twisted and turned in the slighest breeze, but more noticeably his face was set into a stony, scowling expression of perpetual disapproval and his wrinkled mouth opened up to snap at the dog. Though his body seemed impossibly bent and stooped, he managed to catch up with the tawny dog and throw a scolding hand at his nose as he barked again at seemingly nothing.

It was like looking in the mirror years into the future, Heero thought, knowing that he'd given his own version of a similar look to the Shinigami. He grimaced a little. "But I wasn't like _that _to him, was I?" he muttered to the empty house, trying to convince himself more than anything now, suddenly feeling guilt tying a knot in his stomach.

As soon as that hand struck that muzzle, it yelped lowly, keeping its jaws close, and slunk away from its master as far as its chain would allow it. The dog crouched low to the ground and watched with wide, fearing eyes until the old man grumbled at him, swore at him, and began his trudge back inside. The scorned animal slunk around the nearby tree with tail firmly tucked between its legs and kept out of sight, and Heero felt as bad as if he had hit the poor thing with his own hand.

For him it symbolized much more than a punished dog.

_They were sitting on the roof, watched by the moon. "Mmmmm, that sounds good," he had hummed into his shoulder, eyes closed serenely. "You promise?"_

_And then, only days later, there he had stood in front of him, tears running down that vulnerable expression. He had hesitated, and the Angel's face had just wilted before his eyes and turned away. It was the last he'd seen of him—the last he'd ever see of him._

The guilt became too heavy to stand as soon as he saw the old wife standing in the doorway, waiting for the stooped, sour-faced old man. He drew closer and saw that she didn't like the harsh treatment of the dog, but her face opened in a warm, accepting smile, and Heero could see she loved him nonetheless, just knowing that he was an irritable old thing and knowing it didn't change her affection for him. All the air had left him and he wondered where it had gone. He felt choked, trapped, and alone.

Meanwhile, the old man across the street had stepped inside and the wife had smiled at him as she reached out to shut the door after him.

Heero's body, now somewhat used to his mind wandering off on a lonely whim, moved his legs so that he stepped backwards and then turned to leave the living room.

His feet walked without him. They took him somewhere, and he didn't care where. His walk turned into a run down the hall, and as soon as he reached the staircase, he realized the ghost of his ex-husband's memory would be waiting for him upstairs, it was following him from the living room—hell, it was right in front of him, crying on the steps—and he collapsed onto the second stair. His back slid down the wall and eventually he came to rest, sitting with his aching head bowed.

The empty, quiet house was filled with one, soft sound it had not heard for years, save for the previous, dramatic night. From the staircase, it slowly moved from room to room, filling the air, and the sound grew stronger and stronger as the time wore on. It moved into the lifeless living room, into the lonely bedroom through the open doorways, filled the shell of a home.

Heero's back arched away from the wall as he hunched over, pushing the palm of his hand over his eyes and choking back another muffled but wretched sound. His lips were pursed together, but he soon let out a rushed, sobbing sigh and tried to choke it back, bringing his other hand up to hide his face to will it to stop. He brought up his knees a second later, sniffling, and rubbed furiously at his eyes. He only succeeded in turning his face another shade red and spurring on his unexpected emotional reaction. He took in a sharp breath, making no outright sobbing sounds, but knowing they were there and waiting for him to crumble.

As he sat there, trying as hard as he could just not to cry and not to remember the Shinigami's crooked smile, he didn't feel like a child—he felt like he had never emotionally grown up at all and he would only grow old in an empty house. All because he was afraid of growing too attached, but still afraid of being alone. He'd been stubborn and stupid. Again he felt the sting of horror he had upon his mother and father's death, felt the old demons in him tearing free of their mental holds and overwhelming him again. And at the front of the pack, stood his husband, watching him with eyes that had seen so many more years with him and filled with their own heartbreak.

The arrogant mortal sat on his staircase and held back the tears he'd never wanted to cry for years for what seemed like an eternity, until the feeling was spent and he leaned back, flushed red and rubbing his eyes dry again. He sighed, then started rubbing his eyes again with the palm of his hand a few seconds later. A weak chuckle escaped him. "I wonder what Shini would think if he saw me like this," he mumbled, giving a final sniffle and a drained smile. The next laugh came out strained, almost sobbing, and he tiredly laid his arms over his knees to rest his chin on them, hiding his face beneath his disarrayed hair.

He sighed again, this time without any of the humor. "She was right. Of all the people, that maniac woman was right," he mumbled in complaint, knowing there was no one to hear it. For another few, silent minutes, his head remained bowed tiredly, until his eyes wearily lifted and a familiar red thread caught his attention, glinting on his pinkie finger.

* * *

1 I was having trouble deciding on the river for the setting. I mean, I think the River Styx is more accurate, but I've seen different sources say completely different things so, I decided to go with the River Acheron. Oh, come on, isn't the River of Woe totally appropriate?

2 Shini's whole name didn't seem to evoke that same feeling of, "Oh, shit, I'm in trouble," when Iria yelled at him, not like when you have a more human one, like, say, "John Rupert Doe!" (don't ask me why John Doe's middle name is going to be Rupert, it just is)

3 Shades are creatures in Hades that are basically what their name suggests, just shadows. I don't have a lot of other information on them, though .

* * *

A/N: Okay, so I told you there'd be only one more chapter of My Shinigami, My Hamburger, but you'd like to see more, anyway, right? Well, don't fret any of your heads, because I'm only three hundred words or so of finishing the _very _last chapter. Together, I thought it was getting a little long, I wanted to draw out the tension a little more if I could, I wanted to get out a chapter right now, and it's also neater to have Arc I be Chapters 1-29 and then Arc II can be 30-whatever. You know, a nice even number. So, keep on your toes, there should be another installment just about tomorrow--and it's the finale (for this part, at least)! Thanks to everybody--oh,_ I almost forgot! _There's this gorgeous fanart drawing for Chapter 27 by the talented Korilin which I absolutely adore. Try http/korilin. I'm so excited about it, go check it out! Thank you! 


	29. Goodbye to the Yellow Brick Road

Chapter 29

"Goodbye to the Yellow Brick Road"

Meanwhile, the sun still shone in another part of Tokyo and one tall, blonde, American-looking woman strolled boldly through the crowd of finely dressed mortals inside one of Tokyo's new premiere restaurants, even taking to elbowing those stubborn few trying to pretend they didn't see her. A trail of offended faces was left as Iria finally made it through the slow moving crowd coming in through the front door and walked straight up to the kitchen, through the Employee Only door behind the counter, which, by the way, she had slid over in a tight white mini-skirt. Confusing the poor waitress behind that counter all the more, she walked brazenly up to the swinging kitchen door and pushed it open and stuck her head in.

"Hey!" came the irritable bark, startling the cooks and carrying to the ears of those dining inside. "What's taking so long? Is it so hard to get a couple of glasses out to a goddamned table before I hit a mid-life crisis here? Jesus Chr—oh, thank you… about _time_, too."

Iria had reached the back door, leading out to the patio where Shini sat lonely at a two-person table, and was just about to nudge it open with her hip, one glass of water in each hand, when "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" started playing in her pocket. She glared at it fiercely for interrupting her and quickly cursed at it, moving one full glass to the other hand and holding it in against her breast as she reached for her phone. "Infernal bastards—I've got to start giving out more fake numbers—" she grumbled, imagining she had given out the actual number to some guy at a bar and been too drunk to remember it, but her face dropped as she pulled it from the slim pocket in her skirt and read the I.D.

'_Heero Yuy'_

And then that face twisted up in disgust and she gave the caller a sincere, "Fuck off," before snapping it shut and making it disappear with the twist of her hand, safely out of existence for the moment. Then she took the cold glass back into her hand and bid the memory of her son's ex-husband another sweet sentiment. "Can't wait 'til he gets hit by a bullet train," she grumbled, pushing the glass door open with her hip and stepping outside.

In an empty patio during the middle of a bright Tokyo day, an Angel of Death sat at a black, French-style café table for two, alone and idly toying with the salt and pepper shakers sitting next to the vase with the freshly-cut flowers. He was deceptively normal looking; the one benefit to the whole ordeal of the Shrinks was that, once cured of it, it enabled him to hide his wings and tail from sight and masquerade as a mortal. Bought from the finest boutique Iria had found, he wore a purely black T-shirt with a low, revealing neckline and barely enough fabric to cover his sides when he stood in his unduly favorable designer jeans. His hair had been untangled, cleaned, and brushed until it held the same quality of silk, kept in a billowing ponytail.

His eyes were fixed on the table's marbled surface, but in reality his mind was miles from this resplendent restaurant and it lingered on a little blue house. The exact image was already fading in his mind, but he could see his _Teishu_'s face as always and instead of remembering the harsh expression he had caught sight of during the argument the night before, he saw the almost-smiles and few warm smirks over and over again. He grew bored of nudging the salt around, sighed, put his chin in his hand, and toppled it over with a finger. It fell like a sacrificed chess pawn and did not move.

Iria came up to the table and set the two glasses down. Before she placed the second before her moping son, she smiled and cooed at him. "Oh, come on, Shini, cheer up," she told him as she sat down, setting the salt shaker upright again with a comforting smile.

"We can find you some new foxy thing for you, if you want. You know, something hot and fresh. I dare say we might even go younger than twenty-five. Now wouldn't _that_ be yummy? Oh! What about him?" she asked, pointing to some haphazard mortal on the street.

"No," Shini said quietly, staring at the sweat running down the glass.

Iria scowled at him over the floral garnish between them. "You didn't even look. Now, sit up and pay attention, young man."

He reached up, hardly giving her words a second's notice, and started idly stirring the ice in his glass with the straw.

"Shinigami, I told you nicely the first time. I _won't _the second time," his mother warned him, shooting little daggers at her moping son with her icy blue eyes. "You know you can't go back."

Still staring down at the glassy, polished surface of the table, eyes miles away from where they looked, he only answered plainly, "I know."

"Then get your chin up, Shinigami. I swear, if you're going to act like this for long, then you're not going to live on Earth at all. I'll arrange it so that you'll have a permanent home in Limbo, and I'll have you barred from the Watching Pools, too. There's no reason for you to just pout your life away," she lectured him coldly, frustrated with her son's lack of emotional recovery. The last thing she wanted—no, the last thing she _needed_ was an eternally brooding son who refused to do what she said simply because he missed an arrogant, miserly excuse for a mortal. "Now," she told him firmly, "sit up straight and we'll start talking about your new caretaker."

"I already have a husband," he said plainly, watching the tiny bubbles sliding up the glass as he stirred the water. "I don't want a new caretaker. I don't want anybody else."

Then, as if it were the most casual statement in the world, he simply slid the glass toward him, took a drink through the straw, then casually put his chin in his palm and gazed out into the street. He knew that those words would inflame his mother and did it despite that fact, even when she finally lost her composure and slammed her hand on the table. Forgotten were the people in the street passing by, the crowds of mortal men and women filling the Tokyo streets as Iria nearly screamed at her son.

At the same time, Shini felt a tiny, unobtrusive twitch in his hand and turned his head toward the tug.

"That is _it_!" In her frustration, she got abruptly to her feet, rattling the fine china and glasses decorating the table and stomping her stiletto into the pavement. "I swear, Shinigami, the next time I see that selfish son of a bitch, I'll kill him if I hear another god-forsaken _syllable_ come out of your mouth! You hear me—?" The Goddess of Love's face was flushed to a shade of red almost that of her dramatic eyeshadow as she abruptly stopped, seeing that her son's attention was no where near her anymore, though it little had been paid to her in the first place.

He was far too captivated by the sight of Heero standing with each leg on one side of an idle _Youkai_ a little ways down the block at the sidewalk, the engine off and his helmet off but his hair freshly ruffled, adding to the distressed look brought on by the dark circles growing under his eyes. He saw Shini, he saw that Shini saw him, and didn't move for a frozen moment, just watching for a reaction, waiting for anything.

Sitting stock still in his chair as well, the Angel of Death in guise of mortal closed his eyes for a second, chanting through a small, hopeful smile the words, "Get off the motorcycle. Get off the motorcycle. Please get off the motorcycle and come here. Don't turn and leave. _Don't_ leave."

And as if drawn by his request, as if pulled by a magnetic, unavoidable force, Heero nervously licked his lips and felt his body fill with the most nauseous sense of adrenaline he'd ever experienced as he put the helmet down and began walking toward the pair, sitting at a table at the very corner of the street. His heart was pounding faster than a heavy metal drummer, making it all the harder to appear perfectly calm. He cleared the low, black wrought iron fence that separated the streets from the restaurant patio, eyes trained on the deity sitting in the black wrought iron chair. He could see now the normal clothes he wore—and god, how he wore them—the clean, brushed hair, the absence of his telltale wings and tail, and the cautious but longing face. As strongly as he felt that pull, as strongly as he wanted to reach the Shinigami, his fear and his feet came to an agreement and pulled him to a stop halfway there, overcome by a returning sense of mindfulness.

Though he couldn't take his eyes off Shini, he knew that Iria would be glaring at him and he was all the more conscious of the space between them and the tension waiting there like a solid wall. He had to be angry at him after what he'd done. He had to be at least upset about it—but would he just forgive and forget it? Was it worth the risk if he ended up just turning him away, like he'd done to him the night before. Of course it was, if he would have him back, but it was too much heartbreak to chance if he wouldn't, and the dilemma was that he had no way of knowing of what the answer would be. So, he swallowed around the lump in his throat and stood there, uncertain of what to do.

Shit. He hadn't even begun to think about what he was going to _say_.

Iria, however, was perfectly eloquent at the moment. She bared a lip tiredly, like a dog far too old and too wearied to be bothered, and sighed at him, "Why don't you just fuck off for good? Go home." She was perfectly ready to ignore the mortal and lifted the glass to take a drink of water but sputtered when Shinigami stood up.

She gaped at him in disbelief, in outrage. "What do you think you're doing? Sit down, young man!" she commanded in vain, as he started walking toward the unmoving mortal. "Shini!"

Neither of them heard her. Heero gulped again, feeling the lump reaching an unbearable height in his throat. He was more nervous than he'd ever been in life just to watch Shini walk up to him and stop a few taut feet away. He worked to not stutter out some pathetic greeting as he looked over the deity who had been named his husband. In the sunlight, in those clothes, and with no tears running down his face he looked absolutely breathtaking. But then again, he probably always had been—lying sleeping with tangled hair, making a curious face at something he'd never seen before, trying to hold back tears—Heero thought, and now that he wanted him back he looked even more beautiful.

Gods, he just didn't want to be turned away. So naturally the first thing he said was, "Uh—h-hi."

Shini smiled at him knowingly, affectionately. "Hi," he returned, just waiting for his next troubled words with a growing, close-lipped smile.

That left Heero to wrestle with his fear as it tripped up his thoughts and his tongue. Even though he saw the warm expression, the compassionate smile, and had seen how quickly Shini had walked up to meet him, his irrational mind was hijacked by the possibility that his mistake was irreversible and that Shini felt nothing for him anymore. He looked into that face, almost intimidated now by how beautiful it was and how little he thought a god could ever need a mortal, and still couldn't find the right words.

"Shini," he started. He was flustered to get it right, to get the level of his regret across, but ended up simply saying, "I'm—I'm sorry I did that."

After that, his mouth clammed itself up, realizing that he could barely think straight from fear. He'd never felt anything like it before. It wasn't like the physical, dreading fear of when he'd taken his first rollercoaster ride, the anxious, childish fear of his first case of chickenpox, and it all hinged on the Angel of Death's reaction.

He smiled again at him, just watching him fidget in his own way, shifting his weight ever so slightly back and forth from foot to foot as he still tried to hide his nervousness. He was amused and touched by it all at the same time. But he didn't speak up; this game was far too enjoyable to end now! The corners of his mouth smirked mischievously.

Heero had never had such a problem with silence before even when he had lived in an empty house and hurried to fill the space between them, feeling as though he hadn't said enough. "I acted foolishly… I shouldn't have treated you like that—I would never do it again, I was a jerk—I was so stupid to do that to you, I wasn't thinking. I—"

Shini could have watched Heero falter on with his apology for quite some time more, but he knew that it wasn't a game to Heero at all. He was so afraid he didn't know what to do with himself, so nervous that he couldn't realize that his mistake had already been forgiven the moment he'd come back. That was when he decided that it was time to end the game and closed the space between them. He laughed softly at Heero's semi-neurotic reaction to his own fear of rejection and the expression he made as Shini slid his hand into his tousled and unwashed hair around the back of his head, tilting it as he leaned in and kissed him.

Heero, surprised, hesitated for a second with Shini's warm lips on his, but he found his fear had shut up very quickly and he enthusiastically leaned into it, with every intention of returning the action. His arm reached around Shini's back and quickly got rid of any pesky distance between them, pressing Shini's slim body against his and making him hum happily. The Angel of Death reached up in return to put his other arm around his neck but suddenly Heero felt the warm, cinnamon lips pulling away from him and Shini's hand trying to get a grip around his shirt as he was physically yanked off him.

"Now, just hold on freaking second here! I said _hold _it!" Iria snapped, fisting her hand around the back of Shini's collar and peeling him literally off his husband. Their lips came apart with an almost comic popping noise and as soon as Shini got steady on his feet he was already trying to escape from his mother. His tail even appeared to whip at her wrist, but she had a pretty good hold on him and not a very happy expression to match.

Her glare came to settle upon Heero and his own defensive one came up automatically. With her face twisted up like it was the most impossible situation, she asked incredulously, "What the hell! What is your problem, Arrogant Mortal? Yesterday, you said you couldn't have cared less and now all of a sudden you want him back?"

"Yes." Heero answered her with only a hint of a growl this time.

A disbelieving scowl came over her. "Typical mortal. Always changing your mind, never appreciate anything until someone comes along and takes it away from you—_then_ you're ready to fight for it," she grumbled. "Christ, this is why I hate dealing with humans."

Shinigami frowned at her, still wriggling and just about prepared to slip out of his shirt just to pull free of his mother's grip. "Come on, _Okasan_, let me go!" he growled at her as well, reaching behind his head to try and physically pry his fingers off of him. In response, she gave him her own frustrated sound and slapped her other, long, red-nailed hand over his offending hand and he quickly withdrew, whining at her in annoyance.

"You keep quiet, too!" she snapped at him quickly, giving him another yank for good measure. "Christ, let me get out a few words before you jump him, would you?"

Shini gave her a disgruntled face, obviously very upset about the unnecessary distance between him and his _Teishu_, but he folded his arms and waited as patiently as was possible for him while his mother finished what she had to say. Though self-possession was never one of his prominent strengths, he decided the wait would be bearable if he instead watched his mortal husband's face. Again, a smile split his own, an anxious and overjoyed feeling again fluttering around in his chest all of a sudden.

Iria looked Heero sternly up and down again, appraising the disheveled, unwashed look of his hair, the circles beneath his eyes, traces from his restless night and weeping morning, the still-defiant face filled with tired lines. Her bright red lips twisted in decision, still scrutinizing him even as she opened her mouth, holding her son in place. "Heero Yuy," she started firmly, "you have been a real jackass to my son."

"At times, yes."

As if offended, she arched an eyebrow at him. Already, tiny bubbles of her temper had started rising in a boil inside her. "At _times_?" she asked incredulously, already ready to raise her voice, until Shini gave her a quick nudge in her ribs with his elbow, warning her with a pointed look not to loose her temper and risk frightening off his husband again. She made a tiny face at him, but cleared her throat and composed herself again, though the stern face never disappeared through the interview he was being given.

"Now, listen up. I don't like the way you treated Shinigami, I don't like the way you respond to authority, and quite honestly, if I could have, I would have throttled you by now," she warned him sharply, wagging an acrylic nail in his face. "And I feel like I really should have, and I shouldn't be doing this now—but, you… you," she ground out reluctantly, pushing the unpleasant words out past her tongue, "you exceeded my expectations. Just when I had you pinned down as a cold, heartless bastard of a mortal… you proved yourself at least _somewhat_ capable of being humble. I guess now I can see that you do want Shini. And, as much as I hate to admit it anymore, you are the best candidate we've ever come across, in all our hundreds of years of searching… so—"

Her voice trailed off and she turned a flustered face toward the street, too proud to utter the last words granting him her precious son, but Shini was too anxious to wait. He leapt forward out of her grip and quickly wrapped himself around Heero again, almost knocking him over as he spun him around, practically bursting with happiness. His hands were possessively locked on his hips and he smiled breathlessly, pressing his forehead against the messy bangs covering Heero's. With hesitation or even trepidation he announced, "I love you, Heero."

The mortal had to blink for a minute, struck by the freedom with which those heavy three words had been offered. How could he not be taken aback by it? It wasn't like he'd ever heard it uttered to him with romantic intentions, and his heart did a tentative but enthusiastic leap beneath his ribs.

"Now, can we go back home?" He then asked him excitedly, squeezing him closer and making a bright face that suggested if his tail was indeed visible, it would have been whipping back and forth.

A blinding wide grin covered his face as Heero smiled at him as brightly as he'd ever done, running his eyes over his face. "Your English—it's much better. You worked on it," he said, his tone hinted with satisfaction.

Shini nodded vigorously, flashing that effortless smile. "Uh-huh. I did. You like it?"

"You didn't have to, you know." Heero carefully looked at his face, and tentatively even experimented in raising his hand to his face and brushing back some of the bangs from his eyes. He was rewarded instantly by the passionate eyes he received for it, glowing over his brilliant smile, so he did it again.

"I wanted to," he answered in a purr. As they kept speaking, Shinigami was sneaking closer and closer to him until he could feel the pair of keys in his front jean pocket against his hip. "See, I knew you'd like it. That's all I really wanted." While Heero touched his face, he happily stretched his arms straight, put them on each side of his neck, intertwining his fingers playfully. He tilted his head to give him a loving look, and watched a little color float on up to his face.

Iria snorted and rolled her eyes a bit at the display—mostly from her wounded pride over the Arrogant Mortal, and seeing Shini ecstatic to see him only rubbed the sense of defeat in more. The Goddess of Love just folded her arms and announced suddenly, "Take care of him then. I'm going to go get a pedicure or something." She grumbled as she started walking away on her high stilettos, waving a hand at them. "Can't stand all this mushy stuff."

With the overbearing mother gone, the anxious Angel of Death could get back to his new favorite pastime. Shini kissed him again, just a tempting touch of lips, but it was Heero who quickly initiated the second after they had been parted for only a second. And, intoxicated by the action and his devilish nature sufficiently sparked, it was the Shinigami who pulled away with a face-splitting grin and seconds later the mortal gave out a surprised noise when he felt his legs being swept out from underneath him. When he realized that he was being held bridal-style, he had to give a little roll of his eyes and a snort.

Shini's bright smile didn't waver. "What?" he asked, though the smirking look didn't leave. An eyebrow lifted at him. "I was around when they created chivalry, you know."

"Let's just go home, alright?" Heero told him, smiling and allowing himself to be carried back to _Youkai,_ even with eyes watching them from across the street, from inside the restaurant, realizing that as soon as he had accepted the thought of an immortal groom he had submitted himself to a life that would never normal again. And, when he looked at Shini, he knew it was at least going to be interesting, and the Angel of Death smiled at him from the corner of his eye.

"Whatever you say, _Teishu._"

The corner of Heero's mouth twitched a little. "You know, I thought I asked you not to say that in public," he said, and Shini laughed at him.

* * *

A/N: ... It's done! For now, at least--but still! God, this feels good, but it's going to sink in much more. I've been worked like an ox by this new policy our school seems to have adopted: crushing the sophomore class with big, big-ass projects the last few weeks, and making them all due in a matter of three or four days. That'll leave a week and a half of not doing jackshit, but hey! They can do what they want! (if you didn't catch that sarcasm, go back and review and have a stack of twenty poems about sarcasm, transitions and notes on them, and then a poster... hmm, let's say, by--right now!) Anyway, I'm thrilled with how much people seemed to like this story, and I enjoyed writing it! And no f-ing _way_ is this the end for Shini and Heero... in fact, the hardest difficulty I'm having in plotting through the next seven or eight arcs is figuring out a way to _end _the damn story! They're just too much to be stopped! Oh, and about the fanart in the last update, I tried to get a link up, but it got messed up in the uploading process, so hopefully it'll work this time. http/ it's goodbye for now, but I'm still going to be working on Twelve, and two contest entries. If things go well, they shouldn't be 100,000 words+ long and get them entered. Wish me luck, and thanks again! 


	30. The Three Day Anniversary

Chapter 30

"The Three Day Anniversary"

The neighborhood was blissfully unaware that in the old, silent blue house there was something out of the ordinary, a touch of the divine in an otherwise customarily mundane mortal world. They had, however, been quick to notice the arrival of someone new in the Yuy household, long known to be the home to their orphaned and reclusive son. There were not many nosy neighbors in this particular Tokyo suburb, but the rest did not lack eyes. So when a longhaired and bright-eyed, foreign-looking young man was seen on the front step one particular morning just before they commuted to work, curiosities peaked. From their respective vantage points, a number of them watched him simply sit there, looking up at the sky.

He wore an old set of Heero's clothes, one noticed, but wore no shoes. Instead his bare toes curled happily at the concrete, tapping as if to some unheard melody. The door was shut behind him, with no lights on in the windows. Odin Lowe's old motorcycle, newly re-dubbed _Youkai_, sat in the garage, still asleep. He contently rested his chin in his palms, elbows on his knees, oddly colored eyes turned faithfully skyward, as if it were going to fall at any moment and he didn't want to miss the spectacle. He remained there, not moving, for some time, just smiling patiently to himself. This eventually turned the eyes watching away him as they hurried to finish their breakfast, knot their ties, and went off to their morning commutes.

The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami sat out on the front step, happily humming to himself an ancient tune, eyes trained on the sky overhead. He looked over his shoulder once at the house to see if anything had stirred, and then down at his hand at the red string attached to his pinky finger for signs of movement. Invisible to all eyes but his and his husband's, it ran, supernatural and glowing red, through the door, through the corridor past the quietly sleeping kitchen and living room, up the stairs and into the bedroom from where he had emerged a few minutes ago, leaving a snoring mortal beneath the blankets.

Shini suppressed a grin as he suddenly turned his head toward the sky again, jumping to his bare feet on the walk. He put a hand over his eyes and stood on his toes as he squinted up into the clouds, painted orange and red by the morning and began walking. Slow at first, gently walking down the cement with his eyes turned upward, then he began to pick up the pace as some distant dark dot began growing larger in the sky as it fell closer and closer to Earth. Racing across his husband's front yard, Shini suddenly took off at a full sprint toward the sleeping street, watching the brightly wrapped bundle hurtling down.

He took a deep breath and then disappeared into thin air as if he'd never been there at all. A split second later he was falling through the air in the middle of the street, clenching his eyes shut tight and wrapping his arms around the plummeting object, being yanked down by gravity. Only a moment before he would have collided with the pavement, again he vanished without a sound, only to surface in reality on Heero Yuy's lawn, dashing for the door and laughing as he clutched the vivid lime green and magenta box. As if to scoff at the mortal laws of physics once more for good measure, the mysterious young man simply dashed through the locked front door, giggling uncontrollably to himself as he went slipping and sliding down the polished hallway floor in his hurry.

Heero sleepily lifted his head from the pillow to squint, grimacing tiredly, around the room only moments before the God of Death came bursting through his door and leapt onto his bed, causing the mattress to jump beneath him. He grunted unhappily at the disturbance and pulled the pillow over his disheveled head as Shinigami crawled up beside him and sat on his knees, grinning eagerly. From underneath the fabric, the mortal could be heard groaning. "Hnnn," he mumbled tiredly. "What, Shini?"

"Oh, nothing, _Teishu_," he answered quickly, unable to control his mouth from widening. He shifted again, bouncing the bed and further irritating the poor mortal as he tried to bury himself in sleep again. "But promise you'll keep your eyes closed for just a minute, okay?"

Heero didn't move an inch, still buried underneath the blankets and his pillow clutched loosely over his head. "Sure."

"Good!" Shini said excitedly, tail whipping as he buried his face past the pillow to give the half-conscious Heero a firm kiss on the side of the mouth before again disappearing into thin air as if he'd never existed at all, sporting a smile wide enough to split his head cleanly in half.

After a few moments of odd silence, Heero groaned and sleepily pushed himself into half-upright position, squinting in the morning light flooding the room. He glanced around with a mildly confused look and muttered to himself, "What's with all this jumping around like a maniac?" before flopping back onto the bed without the slightest intention of moving for several more hours. It seemed now that he was unemployed, his lack of sleep had come hurtling back at him, hell-bent on extracting compensation for all those neglected hours. His disheveled head of chocolate brown hair remained motionless, a softly snoring lump, until another noise roused him to squint and lift his head again. Shinigami came hurtling back onto the bed, causing the mattress once again to make a mighty leap, disturbing the poor mortal to grimace and twist to sit half-way up.

"What the hell are you doing, Shini?" he asked, voice thick with gravel.

"You're not covering your eyes!" came the smiling accusation as the Angel of Death took a pillow and quickly smothered Heero's head with it, forcing him to sigh in defeat and clamp his hands over his eyes as his husband commanded. Once Heero was sitting up, hunched sleepily, with both palms securely obscuring his eyes, bunches of tousled hair clumped erratically on his head, Shinigami again grinned and then took Heero by the face and enthusiastically planted another eager kiss on his lips. He crawled hastily off the bed again and slipped through the ajar door.

Heero moved one finger out of sheer morbid curiosity as to why Shinigami was acting even more neurotic than usual, but quickly covered his eyes when his returning footsteps sounded and he nudged the door open, holding a tray of food. He peered inside to confirm that Heero was still covering his eyes, then eagerly shut it behind him with a flick of his tail. The mattress again sunk as Shini crawled up, opposite the mortal, and placed the breakfast tray over his knees He grinned proudly and then hid a hand behind his back. An unobtrusive puff of black smoke rose as something secretly appeared there. "Okay, open 'em!"

Heero did, brushing his wild bangs as he removed his hands, and felt a crooked smile overcoming him as he gazed down at the tray of food. A cereal bowl full of orange juice and cereal, a glass full of milk, and the blackest pile of toast Heero had ever seen drowning in great wads of butter looked back at him. What appeared to be a bundle of flowers from the neighbor's garden sat in the corner as decoration. He cautiously lifted his head to gaze over at Shinigami, who promptly smiled brilliantly at him. "Well, don't just sit there. Eat up!"

"Thanks," he said, unable to resist a twitch of the mouth himself. He picked up a piece of the charred bread and looked at it sympathetically. He bit into it good-naturedly as he watched, wiping off the glob of butter smeared on his lip because of it. "This is quite the breakfast-in-bed, Shini. What's the occasion?"

Shini tilted his head and frowned at him, making Heero quickly straighten up. "You don't remember?"

"Of course I do," Heero answered immediately. If he could remember it before Shinigami asked him anything more, then it couldn't really be considered lying, but his mind remained just as fruitful and he stared at Shini, oblivious, with charred toast in hand. The Angel of Death blinked at him innocently for one moment in silence, making Heero tense, preparing for an accusation of lying—the furthest knowledge he had of the day was that it was a Saturday, three days since their reunion at the café—but it didn't come. Without another moment's hesitation, Shinigami split open a grin and then gestured toward his plate.

"Well, I said eat up, now! Don't let it get cold, " he said happily, contentedly sitting across from Heero and just watching.

It didn't seem to assuage the anxiety Heero felt—what the hell was he forgetting to remember? And as he good-naturedly shoveled the food into his mouth, voraciously hungry but not necessarily fond of his citrus juice cavorting with his cereal, he secretly was trying to figure that out. Coaching his face as he ate to display neither dislike nor panic, the mortal crunched through orange-flavored grains and scanned every possible nook and cranny of his mind for an answer. He glanced up every now and again for the dual purpose of smiling at Shinigami and simultaneously assessing his reaction. It was inevitable that he would get caught—it would just be his luck—and he did not like his chances against a scorned God of Death and his overprotective mother should he forget something vital. So he put down his spoon, letting the orange juice drip out, and looked at Shinigami in the eye.

"Shini, um—"

He simply gazed back, smiling happily, appearing amused enough just to watch him and awaiting the rest of his words. He'd been in such an elated state for the past three days, walking on air more than usual and inevitably infecting Heero with a few smiles, ever since they'd resolved their fight and Heero had found himself safely in possession of his title as husband to the most troublesome thing in the seven circles of Hell—wait, that had to be it! A three-day anniversary of their reunion in the heart of Tokyo. Now that he felt he'd safely figured it out, the anxiety had not quite left him, as his husband was staring at him now, expecting that he would finish his words.

He hesitated, then picked up his spoon again. "This is really good," he grit out, trying to put sincerity behind it while still picturing the taste in his mouth.

Shini lit up again, as he would whenever Heero would walk in the room, or speak up after a span of silence and draw his eyes to meet, though that was a rare occurrence, seeing as Shinigami refused to let Heero too far from his sight. "Thanks, _Teishu,_" he purred. "I've got something else for you, too."

The low tone in which this was spoken made Heero lift an eyebrow and lean back a fraction of an inch. "Like what?"

He smirked back, shaking his head. "A present, silly."

Heero looked rather surprised at this and swallowed the bit of orange juice and cereal in his mouth. "But it's only been three days." When the Angel of Death didn't respond immediately, he filled the silence himself, trying to be inconspicuous. Shinigami was more insightful than he let on, and he was apparently very enthused about this anniversary. Hurting his feelings had never been a fruitful endeavor in past experiences. "Right?"

"What's three days to me, Heero?" Shinigami purred back, still eagerly waiting to present him with this mystery gift. With one arm still twisted behind his back, he leaned forward, entertaining a devilish glint in his eye. And through his subtle supernatural trickery, the hapless mortal found himself again underneath the Shinigami's spell, sitting upon a pile of pillows and silk rather than a old mattress, hidden from the softly thrumming outside world of faint music and darkness by a thin veil. But all of this was momentarily lost upon Heero, as Shini looked him in the eye and smirked. "You and I are going to live forever, you know," he drawled softly, purposely lowering his voice so that Heero would sway ever so slightly forward to hear it, spellbound.

Then he sat back, whipping his arm out from behind him, and the impossible illusion vanished with the blink of a mortal eye—leaving the two on his spring-box mattress in his room. Heero found himself instead focusing tenderly on a blazing lime green box with a purple ribbon tied about it being presented happily to him with two hands. Dazed more by the loud colors rather than the abrupt shift of reality, he hesitated, staring into his husband's bright violet eyes.

Shini tilted his head at him, unable to resist a smile. "It's for _you_, Heero," he said, nudging the gift box toward him. "It does not bite, you know. I made sure."

He then eagerly scampered over the blankets to sit beside him as he finally accepted it, trying to make his eyes adjust to the blaring neon tones this suddenly after awaking. As the Angel of Death huddled close to him, laying his head on his shoulder in old, paint-splattered clothes, Heero straightened up, setting the box in his lap and looking cautiously down at the ridiculous purple ribbon around it. Like the violet silk might just leap up and bite him.

He looked at Shini abruptly, leaving the gift intact. A bit of guilt seeped into his expression and he hesitated to speak. "I didn't get you anything," he admitted.

"You didn't?" came the immediate surprised response. When Heero's face twisted up horribly, Shini let out a laugh and nudged his shoulder, leaning his head against his and giggling. "Only joking, _Teishu_. S'okay. I don't need a present from you, I'm happy. Besides, _Okasan_ has given me more presents than I ever want. Don't worry about it."

"But—"

"Just open it, Heero!" he exclaimed, nudging him more sharply this time. "You must be a strange mortal, indeed. Not even immortals leave a gift intact this long. Come on, see what's inside."

Finally, he did so, and Shinigami excitedly huddled up next to him, biting the tip of his tongue with a grin as he eagerly waited and watched over Heero's shoulder. The glossy, neon green paper fell in crumpled little piles as he tore it open, revealing a plain white box underneath, taped close. In a moment he had freed the top and lifted it away, staring inside with silent and rapt attention. A hand moved aside the cushioning mass of tissue paper and his mouth opened without permission as he lifted the gift hidden inside out and into the light, its brand-new surface gleaming in the morning light seeping in.

"Wow."

Shini smirked. "You're welcome."

Heero stared at the polished black camera he held in his hands as if it could disappear at any moment, and managed to croak out another sound of wonder as he cautiously turned it over in his hands, watching the light gleam and dart around the facets. He touched it delicately, like he might break it, then shook his head and smiled in disbelief. It was a very expensive-looking, professional camera, and the metallic surface of the 1920's style flash caught flittered and danced, iridescent. Written beside the lens in white, it read, '_Oculus Deus 3000_.'

Heero turned his head to look at Shini, too pleasantly surprised to anything but gape, unable to say anything substantial just yet. He felt an inevitable stir in his chest when the Angel of Death smiled at him brightly and kissed him again, laughing. "Come on," he said, "say _some_thing."

Heero didn't. Rather, he reached up with another hand and pulled Shinigami's lips back against his own, thanking him in the only way he could manage at the moment. Without a sound of complaint, he pressed into it and wrapped an arm around Heero's neck, the corner of his mouth still turned up in amusement. He finally broke it apart, noticing when he felt weight subtly nudging him back towards the mattress that Heero seemed more eager on thanking him than actually attending to his new toy.

"Now, now, _Teishu_," Shinigami purred as he pulled away—he'd learned that he could sneak in a few pet names in a good mood and a sleep-drowsed Heero was much more willing to be called _Teishu_, or even _Kirei_ or Blue-eyes, as Shini had found. He took the camera into his hands and used it to keep the mortal's amorous mouth restrained for the moment, sitting up. "You should not be paying attention to me right now, you know. How about the present I got you?"

Heero remained motionless, gazing solidly at Shini. "Thank you," he said in all seriousness.

The God of Death nudged him again. "I will take it for myself if you don't want it," he warned impishly, prompting Heero quickly take it back and grasp it with both hands, making him laugh.

Shini shuffled closer again and began gladly explaining, his entire body swelling with joy to see Heero so pleased with his gift.

"It's a gift from _Okasan_ and me, but you can thank me for her. It's different from mortal cameras. It takes as many pictures as you want, no film, nothing! With this you can see demons, imps, even gods. Now we can take some together!"

"Really?" Heero had remembered the sinking disappointment when he had developed the pictures from his workday with Shinigami in the basement only to find that his husband's contemplative figure almost completely obscured by the blurred black aura surrounding him.

"Come on, let me show you something," he said eagerly.

Pealing himself away from his husband's side, Shini crawled back to sit opposite of Heero and reached over for the expensive-looking gift, which Heero readily handed him over the breakfast tray sitting across his knees, looking quite awake now. Shinigami lifted the lens to his eye, but not before winking at the mortal, who couldn't but laugh when Shini accidentally flashed himself in the face and dropped the camera in surprise, blinking dizzily from the immense flash of light.

Heero laughed so hard Shini shot him a disgruntled look, pouting and whining, "It's not _that_ funny, Heero."

"Yes, it is," he choked out, still smiling.

A moment later a full-color print came buzzing out of the front of the camera, spitting out the ink image of Shinigami peering unknowingly into the lens, the squinting iris visible turned vibrant lavender by the flashbulb. He turned it around quickly and took a picture of his husband sitting in bed, breakfast tray over his knees, and laughed when Heero squinted and cursed at him.

"I change my mind. I agree, it is very funny," he teased, raising the camera again just as Heero reached up to snatch it from him, shielding his eyes. The bright light flashed again, spitting out the previous picture onto the bed, and Shini giggled devilishly and snapped another just to make him wince. Heero reached out, but Shinigami crawled out of reach. His knees knocked the tray, causing the orange juice in his bowl to spill over the edge, and he cursed and moved it out of the way to chase down the Angel of Death grinning wickedly opposite him.

"C'mere," he growled, smirking, "gimme that! That's mine, if I'm not mistaken."

"Nuh-uh! You're not gonna get your way just like _that_," came the reply.

Heero lifted his head, for Shini had suddenly appeared on the headboard behind him, perched like a bird and tail curling impishly at his feet. Another bright burst of white assaulted the poor mortal as he turned his head, and he lunged, squinting, at his feet, trying to grab a hold of him, but he appeared now in the doorway.

Heero scowled at him. "Cheater. You're just using your divinity to your advantage."

Shini smiled back, smug and more than ready to exploit that advantage. "Can't help who I am. And _you_ neglected to say anything about rules, _Teishu_," he purred, lifting the camera again tauntingly.

"Well, then that'll be the first one—no more popping here and there like a damned Cheshire cat! And second, don't call me that!"

"What—_Teishu_?" he answered, purposely trying to look innocent. A loud laugh of surprise escaped him and bolted out the door when Heero scrambled off the bed, hell-bent on catching him. Following a few minutes of heated chase and peals of laughter echoing off the once-lonely walls and a terrific thud when Heero finally managed his capture, they lay on the kitchen floor, the Japanese man pinning his wily quarry down with his mouth, and the camera sat in Shini's hand momentarily forgotten. As the divine stopped to catch his breath, smiling up at the mortal, he reached up and began stroking the side of his face. His tail was skittering across the floorboards as he lazily wagged it back and forth.

Lying there, like a pair of newlyweds about to "christen" their new kitchen, Shini's mind began to wander on him. He looked up into those mortal blue eyes and remembered how close he'd come to loosing him, how painful it had felt to be rejected, only to be filled with rapture knowing he was truly welcome this time. After a few moments, it registered that Heero was gazing down at him with a saddening expression, still pressed on top of him while Shini tried futilely to push the messy bangs away from his eyes.

"Hmm? Something wrong?" he asked, wrapping an arm around his back, as if to anchor him from his thoughts.

"I was just thinking I should buy you some ice cream for our anniversary, since you got me something so nice," he said quietly, glancing over at the camera still clenched in Shini's hand, rather neglected yet. The corner of his mouth turned up ruefully. "But I can't."

"That's right," Shini said softly. "No more ice cream."

Heero didn't look cheered. "I want to get you something, though."

"Oh, no, no. You don't have to." He leaned up and planted a kiss gently on his cheek, but it only further elongated that sad smile. He paused to breathe his response in his ear, if only to blow that stray chocolate lock of hair and tickle the side of his face. "Come on, just lie here with me for a while. This is the traditional way of celebrating your gifts where I come from, you know." When Heero's mouth betrayed his sad face, twitching in amusement despite himself, Shini beamed. "I thought we were having so much fun, or was that just me?"

"What do you want?" he asked. "Really, Shinigami. Anything. I want to give you something in return. I just won't feel right."

"Well, if it bothers you _that_ much…" came the purr preceding the knee between Heero's legs, rubbing gently against the inside of his thigh and causing the unsuspecting mortal to reflexively groan and lean into the motion, despite himself. Shini smugly leaned up into him in response, uniting the planes of their body from chest to knee.

"It can't be that hard to figure out something, I suppose," he said, smiling against Heero's lips, which had fallen open in a soundless gasp. His open mouth fascinated the Angel of Death and he took it, unable to act the saint and resist anymore.

When Heero finally caught his breath again, and it took more than one attempt, he sat up in a bolt, disengaging himself from his husband. Lying on the floorboards with his hair loose and ruffled, the Shinigami calmly opened one violet eye, smiling in a spine-tingling, subversive way. His body language was only inviting Heero back, and he lay there patiently, grinning. "I can go slower," he murmured.

"No, Shin, it's not—I—" He sucked in a deep breath and tried to stand.

Finally, the other eye opened, now colored by growing concern at the flustered, nervous grimace on his husband's face. He sat up and put that arm back around his waist, eyes flickering over his face. Heero cautiously let himself be drawn back, though he looked spooked. "Hey, hey," he said softly, "what is it?"

It was a gentler tone than he'd ever heard from Shini, and he sat back down opposite him and looked him in the eye, he seemed to settle. Shini put a hand to his neck and gently massaged where it met his shoulder.

"Heero? Did I do something?"

He turned his head, letting out a puff of air. "Did you _do _something?" he breathed incredulously. "Well, yes, you _did _something, but—"

The Angel of Death lifted an eyebrow. "But what?"

Heero remained silently, cautiously fixing his gaze on Shini, using his impossibly blue eyes to try and communicate his problem in that excruciatingly handsome way. He had nervously begun rubbing his thumb over Shini's other hand, which he had snatched up while being momentarily indisposed and was now clutching tightly. He glanced down at it when Shini's eyes led him there, and loosened his grip and apologized.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and glanced away. "It's not that I don't like you, Shini, or anything like that. It's not, I swear. I mean," he stumbled out, looking imploringly into the eyes of the God of Death who patiently listened, "you're beautiful, and I want you here, with me, and I love you, Shini, but—"

"Ah, it was so wonderful to hear, until that '_but_,' " Shini drawled playfully. The insert of humor did not soothe Heero's firing nerves though, and he looked even more distressed, if it were possible, as he stared back. He gulped dryly and Shinigami nudged him closer to comfort him. "Listen, _Teishu_," he said, pecking him on the mouth, "I understand."

"You do?" He blinked.

"Of course I do." Now Heero looked a fraction relieved, but still his worried mouth held control, spilling his concerns without permission. Shini had noticed his habit of explaining himself desperately when he felt he'd done something meriting punishment or scorn, smiling as the image of an exhausted Heero standing, stammering, in front of him, trying to apologize for throwing him out.

"I'm just not—I'm not ready for this. I mean, it's been a while since I've done anything and it's not like I've ever…"

Shini smiled. "Had sex?" he filled in, making color rise in his husband's face. He seemed a little uneasy hearing the word and it made him grin—he had been raised by a respectable Japanese woman after all, and Shinigami didn't expect he'd really been allowed to utter a syllable of a curse without catching hell for it. The same principle just simply did not apply when you were raised by Shinigami's mother.

"Well, not with someone like _you_," Heero finished.

"What, someone attractive?"

"No," the Japanese man said, though Shini felt he'd struck a particular nerve when the color deepened in his face, "someone... not human."

His laugh echoed throughout the house. "You make it sound so _bad,_ Heero. Oh, but, don't worry," he reassured him, nudging closer, the purr rolling off his tongue as he leaned in, "it'll work out just fine."

Cautiously the mortal ran his eyes over the Shinigami's expression, hunting for signs of unhappiness in the youthful looking face that had seen thousands years more than he, Heero still felt the guilt turning in his stomach when he didn't find any. "So," he drawled carefully, kneading his thumb against the inside of Shini's palm as no concealed show of nerves, "you're not upset with me?"

He fell reverently quiet when his husband leaned forward, seemingly to give his answer physically, his mouth just fractions from intersecting his, and felt the puff of air when he chuckled. "No, I'm not," he drawled slyly, "but when we do get to have our fun, I'm not going to let you off so easily, Heero Yuy."

He then, as innocently as Heero had ever seen him, abruptly smiled and stood up, declaring they should go out for a ride, and pulling the somewhat dazed mortal to his feet with the sound of his voice still ringing in his head.

* * *

A/N: Ah, finally back! Arc II begins! I'm really excited, but I'm all typed out, I'm afraid, so I'll make this short and sweet. It's actually a fair-sized chapter (almost 5,000 words), and I'm happy with it to begin the second part of the story. Hopefully, this _will_ be shorter than the first installment. I'll just be waiting to hear what you guys think about the new chapter--and what you notice about Shinigami, because he's definitely going to... uh, "grow". :) Not saying anymore, so, ciao! And thank you everybody who ever reviewed this story, because I've been working on it for over two years now. 


	31. Expiration Date

Chapter 31

"Expiration Date"

The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami sat on a black motorcycle in the heart of Tokyo's hustle and bustle, listening to an organ riff and jazzy guitar pour from the near by record shop and letting his bare toes tap playfully to the beat. _Youkai_ remained parked just outside a flashy thrift shop littered in punk lime green decorations while cars grumbled by in the narrow street. The sidewalks were a living, teeming creature of hundreds of teenagers, dressed in similar punk rock and Gackt apparel as the strolled by, swinging colorful shopping bags on their arms. In the empty seat where his husband would have sat instead lay his helmet, gleaming in the sun between Shini's knees. He had disappeared into one of the nearest shops with a wallet full of money and a determination to match the gift he'd been given.

The God of Death remained there happily while the sun rose over Tokyo, soaking the streets in brightening morning light. Little was he aware at that time of one particular pair of eyes watching him so strong was the feeling of contented love. It had washed over him some time ago, and only now that Heero had accepted him into his life could he let himself drown pleasantly within it, growing wistful as he stared at the bustling street and a smile splitting his face. He could not feel the sensation of eyes carefully sizing him up, nor pay attention to the conspicuous blonde in the masses of dark hair and almond eyes who stood across the street. Had he simply turned his head, he might have seen her cautiously adjust her dark sunglasses, peering at him as if to make sure he was real, and then quickly compose herself and stroll off at a determined pace with a cellphone in hand, disappearing into the crowd.

Shinigami continued humming happily, oblivious to this. After a moment, still wearing a lovestruck, dreamy grin, he casually looked around, pulled by an invisible, hardly noticeable instinct, and blinked at the sidewalk where the blonde had stood, only moments ago.

The guitar riff was peaking, and slowly dying down as the song came to an end over the speakers, giving way to the din of the streets, of hundreds of mortal voices meshing together. He suddenly noticed an odd sound in that clamor—one that sang to the tune of 'Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?'—and sat straight up. The Shinigami quickly scrambled to grab the cell phone his mother had given Heero from where it sat in the pocket of the jacket he wore. It was his husband's of course, for that's all he really cared to wear nowadays, not the piles of designer clothes his mother had lopped upon him when he had moved into his husband's house.

He finally wrestled the petite pink cellphone out of the pocket and flipped it open to see his mother's name displayed in gold text, with a tiny cupid shooting an arrow into the final letter with a wink. Shini quickly pressed the 'answer' button and lifted it to his ear. "_Moshi-moshi_, _Okasan,_" he greeted eagerly.

But it was not his mother's voice that greeted him in return, at least not immediately. Instead a low, gravelly voice croaked at him, "Hold on a minute," and in the background he could hear the familiar temperamental rhythm of his mother's words, screaming, "No, you idiot, I said put it on speakerphone! Can't you see that I'm busy here? For Hell's sake, the red button!"

The imp, who had probably been wrangled into the unlucky duty of tending to Aphrodite's will that day, mumbled shyly back to his boss, "Colorblind, ma'am."

"Only _one _of the many reasons I dislike you today. You'd better hope I won't remember your name so that I can't fire you, _literally_," she growled back, finally spending the energy to tear away from her dress fitting to hit the button herself, then toss her nose indignantly at the humble imp and order him out of the room before she lost her patience. Then, as if someone had found a switch in her and thrown it, she cooed back at her son, who was sheepishly grinning on the other end of the line. "Hi, Shini, sweetie. How are you doing?"

He smiled mischievously, choosing to respond with, "Good," instead of, "Unbelievable," or some other glowing adjective he could think of. Mortal words could not quite express the ecstasy he felt.

"That's great to hear, honey," she purred back. "Everything's going fine?"

Shini nodded, his grin undiluted. "Uh-huh. Perfect."

"Did you like the clothes I picked out for you? And what about your husband—is he treating you nice?" At this point, Shini's blissful smile had waned. Something was distinctly amiss. His mother never referred to Heero with any name less caustic than Arrogant Mortal, let alone admit his status as Shini's lawful (and decent) husband willingly. The poor bewildered Angel of Death had to glance once up at the sky to make sure it wasn't falling or raining fire and brimstone without his notice.

"Yes." He hoped she didn't pick up the surprise or wariness in his tone.

"Oh, and how did the gift delivery go? Did he like it?"

Shinigami hesitated, biting his lip, looking rather perplexed. "_Okasan_, what do you want?" he asked cautiously, eyes darting back and forth as he tried to figure just what that sinister ulterior motive was. "You never talk like that about Heero."

The sound of her falsely innocent laughter came through the speaker a moment later, only serving to further confirm that suspicion growing within him, that she was attending to some higher agenda through this conversation. Though he loved his mother dearly, he was not so naïve anymore to put something of that nature past her. "Want something?" she repeated, injecting incredulity into her feigning sweet voice. "Why, Shini, sweetheart, darling, I—"

"Talk about me how?"

The Shinigami jolted at the sound of his husband's voice, nearly dropping the tiny cellphone as he started to see that the blue-eyed Japanese man was standing just a foot away, running his gaze carefully up and down him and seeming to be careful to keep his purchase hidden carefully behind his back. Around his neck, on a skull-decorated black strap hung his polished camera, the sun glinting off the silver trim and catching in the iridescent flash bulb. The corner of his mouth smartly twitched into a smirk as Shinigami blinked at him in surprise, and then threw his own hand behind his back.

"Hey, Heero," he greeted, grinning overly wide. "Got my present already?"

The mortal lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe I do. What do _you_ have?"

"Nothing."

Heero didn't cease smirking at him as he simply reached over and tilted the nearest mirror on _Youkai_ and tilted his head with a sly expression as he read the screen to himself. "Your mom called, huh? What did she want?" He smartly raised an eyebrow. "Did I do something wrong already?"

"No, no, no," Shini was quick to answer, finally pulling his hand out from behind his back and staring at it oddly. "She wasn't angry. But I don't know what she wanted."

"And you didn't care, either," his husband finished for him. "Because you were too excited about my gift to pay attention to your mother."

His crafty smirk grew as he reached up and placed a pair of glossy black sunglasses on Shinigami's nose, surprising him even further. Shini flinched, taken off guard by the movement and blinked at the sudden darkness of his vision. When he reached up and pulled them down, so he could peer over the rims, Heero was smiling smugly at him, the second gift sitting waiting in the palm of his hand. It was an opened little black velvet case, a simple gold ring in the center shining up at Shini.

A quiet gasp leapt happily out of his mouth before he could clap a hand over it, grinning madly behind it, the glossy black sunglasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Before he gave the mortal a moment to say anything more than, "I know we're already married, but I wanted to give this to you, too. It was my mother's," he had stood up and kissed him excitedly, pushing the sunglasses up on his face as their lips met. And while Heero and the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami stood together at the edge of the busy street, they were pleasantly oblivious to the fact they were still being watched, as a sleek white dog sat beneath a nearby _sakura_ tree, eyeing the pair with the same intense, simmering stare of the blonde woman who had disappeared.

* * *

"Orrin, move over to the left," came the crackling command over the line, and obediently the white dog bowed his head, craning his neck in the ordered direction, ears flicking forward attentively. His commander gave him an affirmative when he had provided the appropriate angle, and the iris of his one pumpkin-colored eye, as translucent and clear as water, focused in closer on the pair. Not far away, the signal was being received on a pair of crooked bunny-ear antennae. The television set crackled once, twice, then the image finally stabilized and provided the two sitting intently in front of the pristine with a crystal-clear black and white image of one Heero Yuy standing beside his father's motorcycle, smiling at his companion with an expression no less than sublime.

"He hardly looks suicidal. What is that?"

"That's the target, Loki."

"I was referring to the thing next to him, Dabriel."

The blonde woman wasted no time in rolling her eyes at the man sitting in the chair, squinting at the screen, and reaching over his shoulder to jab a finger directly on the image of the young man sitting on the motorcycle, smiling back up at their target as he thumbed a precious ring on his finger. The screen gave a dull, hollow _tink_—the two had begun talking happily to one another, their lips moving silently in black and white. "_This_ thing. You tell me, Dabriel."

The being called Dabriel, which spoke with the voice of a raspy young man, was a white dog identical to that which currently stalked the two young men, a pair of pilot goggles, the lenses a fluorescent peach over his eyes, which squinted at the screen. "I'd be damned if I knew, and frankly, my dear, I don't give a d—" he answered her, the woman who had only moments ago been navigating the streets of Tokyo, earning himself a prompt and impatient tap to the head, setting his goggles askew. He yapped unhappily and turned to glare at her. "That happens to be a very popular line of mine!"

Loki leveled a pair of blue eyes colder than ice at him, contrasted by her soft, pale face and long, feminine platinum blonde hair.

"Let's get to some actual work, Dabriel," she told him, drawling just the right, frightening syllables. "Don't forget the reason you're here in the first place. It's obviously not for your mastery of technology. Look closer. That's no human being." She let her finger fall from the black and white display; the longhaired figure was whispering something in his companion's ear as they got situated on the motorcycle again.

Dabriel again looked skeptically at the image. "I see nothing inhuman about him."

"Then you've lost your touch and you should be ashamed. You should be able to spot one of your own kind," she told him, leaning over his shoulder and flicking a switch on the side of the pristine white television set, labeled "_Auras_" and smirked as Dabriel sat up in shock. The entire screen had filled up with bristling black energy, engulfing the image of a pair of lovers on the Tokyo streets in darkness. His canine eyes filled with shock, both ears pricked and goggles hanging half off his face.

"No way," he said. "That's an Angel of Death."

He reached up, white paw resting on the screen, and saw that the other lover had not completely disappeared, instead preserved in his original image. He glowed lightly white against the thick black cloud of Darkness, seemingly unaffected by the massive amount of Deathly energy so close to him. If anything, he looked exhilarated to be embraced by Death so tenderly.

Loki's nearly pitiless blue eyes did not flicker. "A _fallen_ Angel of Death."

"A descendant of Shinigami? No, it can't be. He can't be."

The white dog with human eyes adjusted the peach goggles onto his face, examining the image even closer still. Even as the former patron angel of writers—currently unemployed and working as a reluctant temporary—Dabriel found himself forcibly lost for words at the sight. Tokyo had been completely obscured, every bright soul hidden by this sheet of jet-black energy. It stunned him. Inside the white van, parked, invisible to mortal eyes, in the middle of Shibuya crossing, all of the many television sets and radio dials began to hum with dark electricity and the stacks of books with torn parchment paper began to flutter, revealing infinite lists of names, birthdays, and scheduled death days. He could taste it on the air now, in his borrowed body's acute nose. The energy from the mere energy was so powerful it was sending the aroma of death through the supernatural wires and filling the van with the scent of lilacs and dirt.

"But it is. You and I can both know it," Loki said, with a chilling tone to her voice. But lingering beneath the smell was cinnamon, a distinctly mortal death-bouquet—a personal scent that would be given off at death as a sign of passing.

"Shinigami don't look like that," he disagreed. "I could never forget a horrific face like that. He looks perfectly mortal to me—at first glance, that is."

The white Angel of Death had returned with one of those thick books, flipping through the dusty pages to a page delegated solely to the son of Odin and Yumi Yuy, his handsome, grimacing face etched in the corner at his current, youthful appearance. "Yes, that is the curiosity. More curious still is why it is there with our target, who was scheduled to die today."

"And just exactly how was that to pass, Loki, seeing how Death seems rather indisposed to let go of him at the moment?"

"Suicide. He was scheduled to slit his wrists in the bathroom at exactly 11:36 this morning. Alone."

She closed the book and it obediently flew back to its previous location, turning to face the back doors of the white van, ducking beneath some silver and crystalline wires running along the ceiling. "Call Orrin back, Dabriel. No need to make rash decisions now about his termination. This Shinigami is the most interesting thing I've seen in a long time, and I think we may upset him if we kill his mortal so soon."

"But how in the seventh ring of Hell is a fallen Angel here on earth with a mortal?" Dabriel asked, speaking through his canine disguise.

Loki leveled an even look at him. "I'm not even going to waste the sarcasm on that inquiry," she told him. "Would I be puzzled if I knew the answer?"

"Rhetorical question," he responded. "I'm beginning to understand why you were designated as Angel of Death, Loki. Your sense of humor becomes your vocation."

She simply looked straight through his divine soul with those eyes, giving a cobra's smile.

"Death is no laughing matter, Dabriel. Now, if you would please make contact with Gekka-o. I have a few things to inquire of him before we can finish our assignment."

"Who?"

"Minor demigod, spends his time making contracts between lovers. He's under indictment for accusations of fostering forbidden relations between mortal and Divines, and currently occupying a cell in Atrox. If he had a hand in this, he'll give us information in exchange for my official pardon."

"Right."

The other angel nodded and his dog shape soon disappeared, taking that of a more conventional angelic image, his wings unfolding over the back of the cramped chair and the peach goggles buried in his dirty-blonde curls.

The back doors of the white van swung open in the bright Tokyo sunlight. Not a single mortal turned to look, for none of them could see the angelic relic sitting in the middle of the world's most crowded intersection, nor the white dog that came trotting obediently towards it and leapt through the opened doors. Loki glanced warily out into that world for a moment before closing the door. It abruptly disappeared and not a mortal batted an eye.

She sat silently down at the television set while her assistant took the wheel, watching the mortal and the fallen Angel as they sat arrived at a small, unoccupied park and sat on the grass. Even with the "Aura" filter flicked off, she could feel the energy humming through the wires, coursing through him. He smiled at the mortal with a powerful inner energy shining through, but it was not like the Shinigami she had encountered before. And as they sat there, the mortal explaining with a slightly shy expression as he talked about his mother and father, she could smell the cinnamon, too. The curiosity was killing her and her unsettling smile was growing.


	32. Administrative Red Ribbons

Chapter 32

"Administrative Red Ribbons"

"Dorothy Catalonia?"

Loki turned her head sweetly at the name, holding her dark sunglasses in her hand and flashing the border guard, who was no more solid than the empty lunar vacuum surrounding them but still turned her passport over in his ghostly green hands, squinting at her picture a bit. She worked hard to look unperturbed, flashing him an innocent blue-eyed look pass Dabriel and out the driver's side window. Her driver, Clint Eastwood according to his identification, smiled nervously while the guard hesitated and read off her name. Apparently he'd been behind some rather famous mortal screenplays during his prime, and adopted one of the actors' names. Not like these lunar-dwellers had ever seen a mortal broadcast.

Loki could tell Dabriel was about to break into a frantic sweat if they lingered at the border anymore. He hated identification checks; being discovered as Angels of Death, something that was _very_ bad for tourism, often meant disposing of those clever or unfortunate enough to stumble upon their identities. Actually, she would be doing any of the messy work necessary while he stood back delicately holding his mouth and conferring idealistic criticisms on her methods.

The guard smiled at her. "You know, I think I knew a Catalonia back when I lived dirt-side. Not related to Gregory Catalonia, are you?"

She cracked an eerie mime of a cheery smile as she answered. She didn't miss a beat. "I think he left me an old car in his will."

He laughed, then handed back the three passports, leaning coolly out of his solid tollbooth. The pin-up posters plastered to the walls around him shown cleanly through his hazy green body. "You guys enjoy your trip, now, alright?"

"Alright. We will, thanks," Loki said, waving femininely at him as Dabriel put the white van into drive, more eager than anything to be free of this charade, and the slight brightening of those ghost eyes as her chest bounced slightly with the movement was not lost on her. _Pathetic things, mortals. Even in death, they cannot learn._

Dabriel nodded his taciturn goodbye, then quickly made his way out of the constriction of the booth and out onto the open lunar highway. He shuddered, and sneered, imitating the booth guard and his Southern drawl. "_Y'all come back now, you hear_? Luckily, we refrained from addressing him with long words, otherwise we would have been trapped for much longer than that. It must have taken him at least fifteen minutes to _glance_ at the damn things."

Loki scoffed as she shuffled through the forged passports, flipping the covers open to examine the false names and return them to their fraudulent owners.

"They hire simpletons like him solely to irritate 'intellectuals' like you. And if you despise them so, why did you spend so much time meddling in their affairs? It's not polite to project your frustrations onto innocents so, Dabriel. You're only resentful you were suspended from Muse Inc. and you no longer can flaunt your dubious writing skills through a dumbstruck mortal vessel," she said, casually reading the top passport, then twisting to look into the back. "Orrin, come get it."

From the back crawled an identical copy of the angel in the driver's seat, his doppelganger and assistant, with the same curled blonde hair and classical white wings, also hidden from view by a heavy sweater, similar to the cloak the Shinigami wore. Blinking his one clear, pumpkin-tinted eye and one warm brown one, he took the passport between his teeth and crawled back into the dog bed where he had laid a moment before without saying a word. Loki smiled at him and then turned that expression on Dabriel, who returned the look not so sweetly.

"You're awfully cruel in the mouth, you know," he said.

She turned to look out the windshield, unflappable and smirking smugly. "I'm glad we're getting to know one another so well, Dabriel."

She leaned down to put on the dark sunglasses, then flipped her long platinum blonde hair over her shoulder, and listened to Dabriel make a sound of frustration as he turned to pay attention to the lunar highway. As the green mileage sign passed, he read to himself, "_Atrox Prison: 15"_ and cursed the day he'd ever agreed to this horrific apprenticeship in the first place.

* * *

The pristine white van sat patiently at the security gate outside of Atrox Prison. High fences, all of which was rampant with curled barbed wire, rimmed its bleak white, impenetrable walls. Even the occasional poisonous serpent would wind lazily around a coil in the fence then disappear into the thick mesh of sharp barbs and metal. Dabriel sat in the driver's seat, eyeing them warily from a distance, until the guard uneventfully returned the identification and let them pass. He nodded and managed to keep his nervous nature to himself. Loki gave him a sly, feminine wave before they drove through the opening gates and into the parking lot.

Once parked, Loki turned to reach behind the seat and pat Orrin on the head, curled up in his Angel shape in the tiny dog bed, the passport still in his teeth. "Watch the van, Orrin. We'll be back momentarily," she reassured him, scratching him once behind the ear.

Dabriel shivered to himself, still clutching the steering wheel. "Stop it. That creeps me out."

"What, that I show 'affection?' " she purred at him slyly, with no sign of the aforementioned sentiment in her expression.

"Yes, that and he looks like _me_," he groaned, staring back into her eyes and wondering if there was anything behind those icy depths besides a calculating, Deadly mind.

"Let's just get going," she said, and without another moment's hesitation, teleported herself, so that she stood impatiently outside of the car, her eyes obscured by her dark sunglasses and a wide brimmed summer hat. Her slim black dress fluttered slightly in the lunar vacuum, no doubt a favorite trick of hers, and smirked at him, as if to say, "My, how slow we're becoming." He frowned, slid out of the door, locked it, and followed her as she walked serenely through the prison doors, smiling genteelly at the guards as they opened it for her.

* * *

Loki—or Dorothy Catalonia, rather, as her false identification read—retained that unflappable, pristine smile, holding a black phone receiver patiently to her ear as their soon-to-be informant approach them on the other side of the glass. The sliding bars parted and let the demigod through, his hands bound by a pair of golden handcuffs and dressed in an amusing caricature of 1920's prison garb, the black and white bars ranging greatly in size from head to foot in a seemingly completely erratic pattern. Gekka-O looked at them through a shock of disheveled gray and white hair. Obviously taken unaware by this visit, he glanced once at the guard before cautiously walking towards them, a beautiful blonde pair, one wearing a nervous and unhappy grimace and the other smiling icily at him. He sat down, his long and aging face looking pale beneath the bright lights, and regarded them for a moment before picking up a receiver himself.

Loki wasted no time. "Hello, sir," she practically purred, using all her feminine charms to immediately ensnare the targets attention. She did not want to dance around him; she wanted her answers. "We have a few questions to ask of you."

"And just exactly who are you two? You want a marriage? I'm kind of busy."

She smiled. It even unnerved Dabriel, who was sitting next to her, thumbing his receiver at his neck, not sure of what he'd be allowed to contribute to the conversation.

"Just someone who can pardon you from your crime. That is, if you should choose so."

Not suprisingly, skepticism crossed his face. He knew an offer when he heard one, and something low and sinister in her feminine voice and carefully articulated words told him she could and would deliver it, but not without exactly what she desired—immediately. "And if I do choose so? What do you want in return?"

"Only a precious few moments of your time, my good sir."

"Alright," he hummed, glancing over to Dabriel for a moment, then back into her icy blue eyes. "Sounds fair enough to me. What do you want to hear?"

"You Tied a mortal to a fallen Angel of Death," she said, pinning him with her stare, like she was surreptitiously trying to drain his soul with it. When he flinched slightly and looked flushed, not wanting anyone to hear this particular accusation, she smiled even more sinisterly. "And you've done it more than once. That's why you're here. They aware that you've been illegally Tying mortals and gods for years. And you know just as well as I that such offenses will earn you a good time in prison."

Gekka-O looked briefly to Dabriel, still unsure as to why he was there, for some kind of reassurance about this unnerving woman and her intention, but he could only offer him a nervous look in return. "Yes? And?" he asked cautiously.

"Tell me what you know of Heero Yuy."

"He's a mortal."

"Well spotted," she purred, hiding her contempt, then continued briskly. "You Tied him to a Shinigami."

"No, I didn't," he answered, looking rather matter-of-fact on this.

If Loki was taken even the slightest off-guard by this statement, she did not show an ounce of it—no, thought Dabriel, that would be too _human_ an emotion for her. "Explain." Her tone was unforgiving.

"The adoptive mother of that Shinigami—the Thirteenth—came to me a few weeks ago, before I had been arrested, and asked me to arrange an illegal marriage between her son and a mortal, Heero Yuy. I agreed, and I drafted her a copy of the official document binding them, but I never Tied them."

"The fact remains that they are Tied, though," she rebutted icily.

"They are, but I didn't do it." He continued when she tightened her gaze ever so slightly, visibly dissecting each of his words remorselessly as they left his mouth in the search for truth. "I never joined Heero Yuy and the Thirteenth Son of Shinigami because they were already Tied."

Dabriel turned and looked at Loki, clearly surprised, mouth opening as if to ask her how that was possible, but her icy blue eyes were trained on the demigod opposite them, looking ready and willing to tear him apart for her answer.

"So to whom did you Tie Heero Yuy's soul in the first place, at conception?" she pressed, managing to sound no less concerned than if they were chatting about weather, but her razor-sharp mind was moving quickly behind those eyes, calculating.

"I can't remember that far back. He's a very old soul. You'd have to look through my files to find that out, but they've all been confiscated by the High Council. There's no way I could get to them now." Somehow he felt satisfied to not be able to supply her with the answer she so ravenously craved, but she did not budge an inch of emotion in his favor. She calmly smiled at him.

"No matter. Good evening, sir." One final smile, sweet and smooth, signaled the end of the conversation and she calmly hung up the phone receiver, never breaking eye contact. It sent a cold bolt of ice through him as he thought he saw a corner of her mouth twitch in a cruel smirk. He suddenly realized he'd been fooled and as she watched that realization cross his face, growing pale, she curled her lips back, smiling fully.

Gekka-O stammered a shocked word into the receiver, but only Dabriel could hear it. "Now, wait—wait! What about my pardon?" he asked, swallowing his nervousness to speak in a somewhat calm tone. But he could not disguise the terrible feeling he'd been the ignorant party in this unenforceable contract. "When will I get out of here?"

The white Angel of Death just nodded politely in thanks, feigning ignorance to his pleas, and femininely clasped her hands over the hat in her lap, standing up and waving goodbye to him. He'd suddenly lost all his Divine confidence and his skin shone whiter than his hair beneath the bright lights. She turned calmly on her heels and began walking out of the room, terribly smug with herself. Gekka-O's eyes flashed to Dabriel, who was still sitting across the glass, still holding the receiver to the side of his face. He looked questioningly at him, and Dabriel quickly slammed the receiver down and ran quickly after Loki.

"No! I want my end of the deal!" he cried out after them, pounding a fist on the table as the door shut behind them. "Damn it, who are you? I want my pardon!"

As Dabriel finally caught up with Loki, nearing the end of the main hallway and the door leading to the outside, he looked at her curiously. "So," he managed out, catching his breath from jogging after her, "what does that mean? Already Tied to the Shinigami? That's impossible! Wouldn't it mean that he was—"

"I know very well what it means, Dabriel." She calmly reached into thin air and materialized her favorite pair of dark sunglasses and put them on as they neared the glass doors. "I believe we have an appointment at the High Council Building."

Dabriel suddenly felt his stomach toss, hesitating. Loki took no care and the doors opened before her as she set her hat on her head, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Goddamn it, Loki," he swore, "I'm _not _breaking into the High Council Building!"

* * *

A/N: Hmm, not as long of an update as I'd hoped, but been so busy lately my head's still yet to quit spinning completely. Sorry 'bout the delay with this chapter. The next one should be much easier to write because it'll be Heero and Shini. Not going to say anymore--you'll just have to keep reading to find out what happens! 


	33. Only the Good Die Young

Chapter 33

"Only the Good Die Young"

Shinigami turned his hand again so that his palm faced away from him, smiling sublimely. His lips curled as though no one was watching him and he wiggled his fingers in a smooth succession, pinky to thumb, in the dappled sunlight draped overhead. He titled his head, still captivated by the simple gold ring on his left hand. He'd been switching it back and forth merrily from hand to hand, finger to finger, until Heero had informed him of the proper mortal place to wear it, and he now could not go for much longer than a few moments before his mind wandered back to it, entranced by the light glinting off it.

Heero lay on his right side, head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed. Their fingers were curled together; Heero was studying his hand just as intently with his own as Shinigami was his other with a contented smile.

They lay beneath a short sakura tree in a tiny green oasis of a park. Only a little ways away lay the bustling noise and neon and sound of full-blooded Tokyo streets, but here there was repose from modern stresses and concrete and steel. The branches hung close to the ground, creating a hideaway where the earth dipped low in a mild sink. The flowers were not yet blooming; the virgin white bulbs were still languishing, only days from fruition. Heero's side was pressed against Shini's but the gentle incline of the hill set them at an angle, one facing out onto the winding path past the tree and the other toward the stone, temple-style wall curling around the green. The sunlight drifted down, etching a patchwork of gold and shadow onto them.

Finally, the comfortable silence broke and Shini sighed, still wiggling his fingers childishly, watching the light reflect. "You love me," he said.

Heero smiled and snorted. His eyes remained closed, disheveled hair drifting lazily over his eyelids. "Oh, is that how I feel?"

"I think so," he murmured back. He glanced again over to his shoulder where the mortal lay his head and in vain resisted another display of teeth as his wild shock of dark hair brushed against his chin. It was almost frightening how much more beautiful he was there than Shinigami had ever imagined, leaning over a blurry pool in Limbo, looking through countless crowds to just catch another glimpse. "No," he corrected himself, leaning down to whisper it closer to his ear. "I more than think so."

Heero laughed again, eyes closed. "You sound confident." And his voice—an unimaginable glory until heard.

"That's because I am."

Heero snorted again, his lips curling silently. From here, Shini could smell the gentle compilation of shampoo and aftershave, two of the more pleasant mortal scents he'd encountered in his lengthy time in existence. "Will I just take your word for it, then? That I love you?"

"It's just as good as yours, you know, _Teishu_," Shini purred. "And besides, the string speaks for itself."

His spade-tipped tail curled around his reclining husband and mischievously poked the mortal in the back, causing him to emit a sound of surprise and twitch, opening those blue eyes and smiling inadvertently, shooting a look up at the purple-eyed deity. It only took a moment for his lips to curl back into their familiar smirking state. It always appeared as if he had found some splendid and slightly wicked quip smoldering on the tip of his tongue, but it was much more delicious to just hold it back behind his drawn lips. Shinigami often wondered what it was, that mischievous word, waiting in that mouth.

The Angel of Death simply studied his mortal husband's face for another leisurely moment, then turned his head to gaze again out on the gently rolling green and colorful shoes visible from their vista. Heero again rested his head on his shoulder, closing his own and letting his body settle against his in a rested sigh.

"What will you do next, _Teishu_?" he asked.

"Beside politely request that you not call me that?"

Shini tilted his head. "Sure."

"Alright. Fair enough. But what do you mean?" His unwavering tone of voice hesitated as his jaws inadvertently split open in a large, uninhibited yawn. "I was planning on just getting some sleep here for a while. If you could handle sitting still that long." Without another hurried breath, he was preparing to do just that, but felt his husband's eyes still lingering on him, awaiting the courage to say something unspoken, and Heero opened an eye. He was—and guilt was seeping onto that face, as well. Straightening and sitting up, he turned to look at him, rubbing the other eye open. But damn, a long, serene nap would have hit the spot.

"I mean, what are you going to do now? Mortals work for livings, do they not? You quit your job."

"There's always more to be had."

The Shinigami was looking more and more distressed. His hand had withdrawn from Heero's in order to enact a nervous fidgeting with the other, fingering the ring around his finger and constantly twirling it. Heero could not help but notice, and felt his lips pinch together in suspicion.

"What?" he said, smiling gently, after a moment's consideration. "Don't you think I can get another one? It'll be fine. If we need money for anything, I'll just go and ask your mother."

That distressed look bloomed. "Heero!" Shini rebutted, flushed, as his husband laughed loudly. "I'm being serious!"

"I know you are," he murmured back, still smirking in his subtle but obnoxiously beautiful way. He leaned forward to gently kiss the side of his face, making a little trail to the corner of his mouth when he remained just as determinedly ruffled and unresponsive. "But you're worrying over nothing. It'll be fine—I've got inheritance funds stored away. But I'll freelance for a few companies, should money grow tight. Don't worry, please."

Purposely, he hadn't bothered to regain space between them, peddling his answer in gentle waves of breath beside his mouth, awaiting that inevitable smile to return. And he felt it and he saw it, the hint of it glowing behind that worried expression, just awaiting its freedom, but Shini grit his teeth to stifle it. His gaze had settled on some distant patch of grass, distanced from his husband's warm presence. He had something to say, holding him back.

Heero curled a hand around to touch the back of his neck, convincing the Angel of Death to face him. "What's wrong, Shin?"

And there it was, that guilty, wilting look. Those inhuman violet eyes locked on his and poured it out without hesitation, letting his shoulders droop beneath him. "I made you quit your job, I mean."

That invoked a smile. "I didn't even like that job."

"But you did, too! You had your own room with no lights and many pictures and cabinets—"

"And an overbearing boss and no creative freedom. I didn't like it," Heero told him, trying to maintain a kindly smile as he chuckled again. "I liked having _you _there—that was the only reason I would have enjoyed myself there, with _you _around." His hand had moved unconsciously, stroking the long, chestnut-colored hair of his divine husband, then holding the side of his face. The Shinigami put his on top of it, clutching, still tormented by a hint of guilt, and the ring caught the sun again, flashing momentarily.

"I swear, Shin," he reassured him again. "Alright?"

"I believe you," came the response, followed by a sigh. "But I still am the reason you quit."

"Unemployment allows me to sit here with you all day, if I so wish. I'm glad you made me quit."

Shini caught him with that guilty gaze, forcing him to smile again. "You swear, hope to die?"

"Let me rot."

Shinigami curled a corner of his mouth at this, and the other shortly mimicked the beautiful action. Finally, the long-awaited, glorious upturned mouth returned, even better now, after the struggle to see its safe arrival, and it sent a blistering jolt of electricity through Heero. It felt just as good to see it now as it had outside the restaurant, only a few days ago. With luck, that feeling would never fade, or—fingers crossed—improve. He could get used to it.

The color in the Shinigami's eyes had changed now, looking deep into them, and Heero hungered for the kiss they promised him. He was overdue.

But Shini hesitated, still smiling, and reached for the camera slung around his neck. He carefully lifted it over his husband's head, still deadlocked with his eyes and a flash of mischievous teeth peeking through his crooked grin. The 1920's style camera was gently placed onto the grass beside them and promptly forgotten, at least for the moment, as Shini leaned forward and closed the distance between their mouths with relish, Heero melting back into it, pressed with not-unpleasant force against the tree trunk.

And only a few minutes later, drawn by the laughter of a loosely gathered crowd of four snickering teenagers and two rather amused adults and one red-faced aging woman, a nearby Japanese policeman had stalked up the grassy hill, looking rather anxious to know what attracted them there. They were scattered in an indiscriminate circle around a Sakura tree, and either grinning or raptly peering beneath the low branches.

His stern look traveled back and forth from each of them, asking silently what was causing this, and the teenagers laughed, clutching at each other's elbows in suspense, when he bent down to look for himself. He swore and nearly bashed his head on a branch, blistering red, when he caught an eyeful of the two young men kissing eagerly beneath the tree, the one pressed flat on the ground and in the process of clutching at the other's back as the mouth traveled down to the sensitive skin of his neck. He felt Shinigami then abruptly start sliding his fingers beneath his shirt, effectively distracting him as his teeth closed around his earlobe as well. Heero clamped his mouth shut in the middle of an enjoyable moan at the sound of the policeman swearing, despite himself, in surprise and the roar of the crowd's laughter building around them.

Shini lifted his head and spun it around, looking more thrilled than surprised at the sudden eruption of noise. Heero bolted up abruptly, hand still clutched to the Angel of Death's shoulders. And the policeman, effectively conquering his blush, raised his nightstick and yelled at them to vacate the premises immediately—though his choice of language proved more colorful than that.

"Shit," Heero growled, heat running to his face. Shinigami let out a yip of excitement and a peel of laughter as they both stumbled over each other, clawing their way back to their feet and crawling out from underneath the branches into the sun. The policeman clamored furiously after them—still relying on a few choice curses at their display of public indecency—and Heero was the last the clamor out, reaching back to snatch up the camera before bolting out, catching Shini's exhilarated grin, and running, laughing, for _Youkai_'s figure, parked on the sidewalk. They left to a healthy round of applause and suggestive whistles from the teenagers, unable to breathe for peals of laughter as they fled on the motorcycle's thunderous growl and a rush of adrenaline.

* * *

A/N: Alright, perhaps a tad short for my taste, but on the perk side, it is purely Heero and Shini interaction--the next chapter again switches to Dabriel and Loki. Sort of appropriate for the coming Valentine week, I'd say. Happy 14th! 


	34. No 0998271

Chapter 34

"No. 0998271"

After a time of silence, Loki had begun to understand this was Dabriel's way of coping with the horrible emotional cocktail of mortification and absolute terror he was facing. A terribly amused smirk lilted across her face, out of sight, as they continued silently down the empty corridors. The hall was impossibly long, stretching for what seemed eternities in every direction, systematically marked off in empty classrooms. Each and every they passed was filled with scattered papers, vacant desks, and thousands of boxes and file cabinets. There was not a guard in sight, nor any sign whatsoever of living activity, Divine or not. It was an abandoned shell of a school, as if the bell had sounded on an eternal summer vacation and the eager students had thrown their papers down immediately, never to return to tidy the clutter. The lights were dimmed, and all the windows drawn and dark, only letting in dusty sunlight in thin outlines. And across the checkered floor, two intruders traveled intent on procuring the information they desired.

The Angel of Death continued down this hall clad tightly in black, her platinum blonde a vibrant splash of color against her back as she moved. It was this that Dabriel fixated on as he forced himself to keep pace despite his awfully short legs—which, Loki had reminded him on more than one occasion, better belonged on a plate with some homemade mashed potatoes. After traveling a ways down the eerily silent halls, Loki turned and glanced back at him.

He looked up at her in return, a squat twelve inches high, and frowned with his eyes.

"What?" he asked impatiently. He knew she could never be up to something good—he worked for her, he knew her far too well for comfort.

"Don't go chicken on me, now," she purred.

"Okay, enough with the goddamn poultry jokes! Alright?" the little red and white rooster tailing her squawked at her, a pair of peach-tinted goggles barely hanging on his head as he strutted along behind her. If he were capable of blushing beneath his snow white feathers, he would have been doing so furiously. "I realize what the hell I am, okay? What escapes me is just exactly why I must be this humiliating creature."

She tossed her hair with a bone-chilling laugh. "You are quite the observer, I must admit, Dabriel. You don't even remember why we left Orrin at the gate? Or were you too perplexed by your new form to notice?"

He glared at her over his beak, pinched tight. "I just want to know why the hell am I an uncooked dinner, Loki," he growled.

And again, he had the distinct feeling that there was not an ounce of fear in her voice only because she had not a soul or warm and beating heart for which to fear. "This place," she purred casually in response, sweeping one hand out beside her, gesturing at the eerily silent scene, "is never empty. As you can see, all the workers have gone home, but it's not without its defense. At this very moment, there are unimaginable numbers of basilisks slithering the halls and pipes above our heads. They sense your footprints through the floors and can smell the blood of an intruder from miles away. And, as you know well, one look would be enough to turn the both of us into nothing more than Divine dust."

"You never told me _that_!" he clucked at her angrily. "You could have at least warned me before dragging me into a veritable snake-pit! It also doesn't explain why you choose this mighty form as defense, either!"

"Hopefully I won't have to explain it to you, either. Keep your fingers crossed, Dabriel," she purred.

"What, and suppose we do meet one? What then? You want me to cluck the forty-five foot snake to death?"

Loki laughed. "Something like that. 1 We'll worry about our lives when the time comes and for now you'll just have to trust my judgement." The scoff in Dabriel's following cluck was not lost on her. "First, the files." With one final glance behind her, down the empty halls they'd traveled, she turned into one of the doors. It was a seemingly completely random choice, but she moved with too much conviction for any of her actions to be a guess.

She threw open the door to Room 49867, revealing a nearly identical mountain of file cabinets, scattered with loose, blank papers and thousands of misplaced pencils, pens, and paperclips. A few old-fashioned desks lay scattered about the metal pillars of files, some nearly scraping the ceiling, stuffed with insane amounts of papers. The windows provided little illumination—they were covered with a plastered layer of still more papers, these stamped a thousand times over with the High Council stamp reading, 'CONFIDENTIAL' in unwelcoming letters and offensive red ink. What sickly light did manage to crawl in lit up long, thick columns of dust congesting the entire space. The door and walls were carved ragged with names and numbers, and the blackboard filled with even more in canary yellow chalk.

Loki slipped in silently and immediately strode confidently across the room, leaving Dabriel at the door. He nearly got caught in the door as it swung close and, feathers ruffled, squawked loudly and dashed inside, just escaping getting pinched. It earned him a withering blue gaze as Loki turned and pinned a baneful look at him for making noise.

"Sor_ry_," he clucked at her, frowning internally. "Christ…"

Her voice was icy. It betrayed nothing of her nervousness. "Just keep watch." She turned back around and began tracing her way quietly around the room, running her hands over the carved names and numbers scattered about without a seeming trace of logic. The small, feathered creature wearing a pair of peach-tinted goggles then hopped his way up a stack of boxes to stand on a file cabinet and look out the square window in the door. And with a rooster keeping watch, the Angel of Death continued her search in the dead of night in the most highly guarded building in all the Higher Spirit World.

She ran her hand along the wall, scrutinizing each of the jaggedly carved words and its corresponding file number. They had no rhyme or reason to their placement, written at all conflicting angles to one another, so at times she was reading upside down and backwards to find what she wanted. As she climbed along the edge of the hellish store of paper, she stepped over more piles of miscellaneous papers, stapled, printed, blank, and smiled to herself. There was a reason bureaucracy was so infuriatingly slow and she was currently knee deep in it—she may have laughed, could she feel true humor.

And then she ran her fingers over the first letters of '_Gekka-o: Confiscation by Arrest; #216' _and her lifeless smile stretched a little further.

"Well, perhaps we will not have to fight for our lives," she purred, brushing her fingertips over the carved letters. She then turned and quickly headed into the jungle of file cabinets and towards #216 as if it were outlined in neon lights.

"Just hurry up," Dabriel told her, bobbing his head as he looked out the window nervously. "At the risk of sounding cliché—I really don't like it here."

She pulled the latch of the middle drawer and casually stepped aside as it shot open to reveal ten feet of files in this drawer alone, nearly knocking over another cabinet in process. Without missing a beat, she began filing through the massive collection of records, each marking the union by supernatural red ribbon between two beings in plain manila files. The only problem was Gekka-o had chosen to join certain beings so even when such unions were a felonious crime in the High Council's eyes. And that had landed those hapless files here, in the annals of the High Council's Confidential Library as evidence for his impending trial.

Carefully running her nails along the tops of each folder, momentarily flicking them open to read the long serial number displayed on each before moving onto the next, she scanned through the files, not breathing a word of sarcasm nor malice as she did so. The silence was nearly as eerie as the soft, distant sounds Dabriel could pick up with his avian ears. They sounded awfully like scales softly sliding through the ceiling and he started nervously shifting his weight back and forth, ruffling his feathers.

She stopped abruptly, and her hand backtracked a few folders, settling on one that seemed to have suffered some time more than the others, its edges slightly crumpled and scuffed around by years of use. Her cold smile returned with a chuckle. She'd found it. Clawing at it once with her long, red nail, she pulled it out from the drawer, receiving no more than a small puff of dust in protest.

"Number 0998271," she read, her lips curling. "Ah, finally. The mortal who cheats Death right beneath its nose. I finally have all your secrets in the palm of my hand."

Her curiosity urged her to open the file and begin pouring over the records of her mysterious target, but cool, even reasoning won out advised her against it. Of course, just a peek couldn't hurt. She leaned against the file cabinet and casually opened the manila folder, arching an eyebrow to herself.

On the very top lay the dossier on her subject's soul, his eternal and metaphysical manuscript that would carry with his soul through its various incarnations. Loki paused from reading it for a moment to reach down, paging through assorted other files archiving his past lives, to the collection of glossy photos buried at the bottom of the file. She lifted the papers out of the way and gazed down at the moving picture of blue-eyed mortal, smiling just to the side of the camera, watching someone. The invisible party must have responded with something humorous, for his face brightened in a soft laugh. She wondered to herself the irony of gazing so lovingly upon the face of Death, and even more so how it came to be they had already been Tied before Gekka-O's hand, as if by some untraceable force.

The photos beneath it were motionless, depicting him in his previous youths, each face slightly different, but the intense blue eyes always constant. Attached to each was a small Polaroid snapshot depicting him at the moment of his death in each of those lives. He lay alone on the floor of a cramped apartment, worn book open and unattended next to a glass of milk on the table beside him, clutching at his chest, young and unfortunate. He lay alone in his bed, cold, bluish feet poking from the bottom of the blanket, old and finally freed from lonely suffering. He lay rotting, halfway out of a foxhole, skewered by a enemy's sword. His body crumpled against the wall, blood splattered in a beautiful and sick corona of red, shotgun laying crookedly in his lap.

Loki did not smirk at these. She did not show a flicker of true emotion, but her wicked tongue was silent as she flipped through each of these, slowly traveling further and further into the past with each image, she began to wonder how many lonely deaths he could suffer if he had been Tied to Death. Surely, at least once, he should have the Angel of Death beside him, or at least some sign of human company at the time of his demise—but for nearly a thousand years worth of lives, she saw no sign. Just as she began to seriously doubt the actual existence of his Tie, she came across one photograph—a very young, blue-eyed man, hair dark, tousled and slightly wavy, his jaw more deeply set than Heero Yuy's currently very Asiatic countenance, suggesting stronger European-blood influence, and beneath it, the picture of his death. Loki quite nearly skipped it over—after all, she expected him to die alone in some miserable fashion, and she'd gotten quite tired of seeing it—but she stopped. There was someone with him there.

The photograph was dimly lighted, as if taken within a locked room with only a miserable sliver of light coming through the boarded-up window. But whatever light there was was enough to show her Heero Yuy's young incarnation lying in a straw bed on the floor, motionless, his face sickly and mouth lined with a crust of blood. But it was the figure that lay over his side, weeping and clutching at his shirt, legs splayed out on the cold stone floor, which truly fascinated her. And that long hair, nearly as long as hers and braided that ran down the back, piqued her curiosity as well. So he did have a Tie—a human one.

Loki quickly abandoned the photo and flipped back to the front page. Her eyes scanned briskly over the words and settled near the bottom. There sat an unassuming box, reading 'Tie Number (_Perennial_)', and beside it, another number.

'0284738'

The foolish demigod had not lied. Heero Yuy's soul had already been Tied, indeed, not to the Angel of Death, but to this anonymous mortal. Perhaps he had been mistaken—perhaps, in his old age, his vision had slipped along with his judgement and decision-making, which had landed him in Atrox, and he had simply made a mistake about the Shinigami. There was no reason he couldn't undo a Tie and create a new one—it wasn't out of his jurisdiction, by any means. He could have simply forgotten about the new Tie, after dealing with thousands upon thousands upon thousands of souls throughout the ages. But to re-Tie him to a god? And what of the mortal soul he supposedly belonged to?

Something about this did not bode with her suddenly. More questions were being spawned than quieted by this strange mortal and his attachment to Death, and Loki hated more than anything than not to be completely aware of her task at hand.

She hooked the folder beneath her arm and turned back to the cabinet, determined to find the corresponding file she needed, No. 0284738, if only to finally rid herself of this malingering curiosity planted in her. Brushing her fingertips, she began to scroll through the numbers, drawing smaller as the souls to which they corresponded became progressively older. She leaned forward, nearing the very end of the drawer, and snatched up the folder she desired, only to see that it was completely empty, save for the number imprinted on the front.

"Loki?"

She didn't move for a moment. She gave a true display of surprise, and her lips curled back in astonishment for a split second. But she quickly iced over and threw the drawer close with a frightening _slam_!

"Loki! Jesus!" Dabriel shrieked, flapping his wings in fright. "You want the whole damn complex to hear us?"

"Someone took it," she growled, throwing the empty and therefore useless folder to the folder.

"What the hell are you talking about?" the rooster asked her, staring at her through his peach-colored goggles as if she were insane. It was an expression he used quite often, actually.

Loki remained there, rigid, for a moment. Then she turned her head and landed a blistering stare on her companion and avian lookout, not pleased in the least. "Someone's been here before us, Dabriel," she droned flatly, her icy eyes distant as her mind calculated. "There must be something frightfully interesting about this mortal and his rather complicated love life, I'm afraid. I only wish I knew what that something was."

Dabriel hesitated, never hearing so human a word as 'wish' uttered from the Angel of Death's lips. But his shock was quickly cut short, as fear took its place only a moment later. He twisted his head, looking out the tiny square of window, freezing up like a taxidermist's latest accomplishment. "Do you hear that?" He slowly lifted his head to gaze up at the ceiling. "Loki? Is that—?"

"Come on," she growled at him, cutting him short. "We're leaving." The Angel of Death stormed back over to the door, all the while ignoring Dabriel's growing cries of distress as the eerie, sliding sound growing louder, kicking piles of paper out of her way as she went. Without a movement of remorse, she snatched up the rooster, who went squawking and clawing under her arm and brought up the other with a snap of her fingers. An identical white rooster suddenly appeared, looking quite shocked to be there, floating weightlessly in the air. The quick lowering of Loki's arm sent him plummeting to the floor only a few feet away.

She snatched up Orrin, scooping him underneath the opposite arm, carrying one rooster with each. Dabriel was still thrashing and squawking loudly when a loud, angry noise came barreling through the ceiling, thundering against the metallic walls of the airshafts. She glanced momentarily up at the ceiling, where thousands of thrown pencils and spit wads hung, untouched, and into the air-conditioning grate. She knelt down, clutching the flapping birds tightly to her side, as a massive snake's head barreled through the grate, sending it flying across the room and clattering around the floor. Its hellish red eyes settled on an odd, chicken-clutching thief, but it wasted no time in letting out a hiss of fury and lunging downwards. A sudden wind threw thousands of loose papers into the air, and the basilisk sunk his fangs into nothing but forms and dossiers as the alarm system began to wail throughout the High Council Building.

* * *

1 The basilisk, a giant serpent capable of killing with just eye contact, can only be killed by the sound of a rooster crowing. Just another testament to how much Harry Potter influences this story.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the delay; hit a rather large patch of writer's block for MSMH, but I think it's well behind me now, and I've got a clear direction to head into, so hopefully chapters should be coming out sooner. This arc will be shorter than I planned on it being, instead of longer and more episodic. Also, regarding the other arcs soon to come, I've decided to condense them. I'll still be covering the same material I planned on, since all of this is just so I can get to the scenes I want at the very end, but it'll be along the lines of four to five arcs, instead of seven or more. Hope you all enjoyed your St. Patty's Day weekend, and for all of you about to go on spring break or already there, have fun! And thanks to all those who read and review, or just enjoy! 


	35. Ai wo Motto

Chapter 35

"Ai wo Motto"

The Shinigami fell back against the door as soon as they had passed through it, slamming it shut, with his husband only a foot away, leaning his shoulder against it as well. The once quiet house was filled suddenly with the sound of laughter as the mortal and the god of death caught each other's gaze and could no longer hold it in, a nearly raucous sound sent bouncing against the peaceful walls. Shini sunk back against the door and held his stomach as the peals of laughter kept coming, replaying the expression of the rather disgruntled police officer and the terribly endearing way Heero had swore and turned red against his lips as they tore apart. He felt it only appropriate that he return the sentiment in someway, if at all possible, and caught the unsuspecting Heero by surprise, pressing his mouth against his thin, smiling lips. The game then began all over again as the smile quickly lent itself into something more productive, as he slid a hand behind the Shinigami's head, guiding that mouth tighter onto his.

A moment later they had staggered away from the door, mostly due to Shini's propulsionary force, and a little ways down the hallway, still determinedly locked lips. They parted only minimally when Heero steadied the both of them to hurriedly kick off his shoes. As his feet struggled to coordinate themselves to accomplish such a simple task, it helped none that Shinigami was holding tight to him, awaiting the resumption of the game. His lips were brushing against Heero's, motionless but wet and tasting impossibly of cinnamon again, as his eyes watched him beneath low lids, his expression almost literally tearing his mind to pieces. Heero groaned, struggling to kick off a rather stubborn sneaker of his, while Shini burnt a lustful look into him, branding him, and then licked his lips in anticipation, catching Heero's as well. A pure jolt of fire ran through him.

The mortal fell rather heavily onto the Shinigami as he finally managed to kick off his shoe and sent it flying against the wall, rather removed from the other one, his face pressed instead against the crook of Shini's neck as they staggered backwards together. A pair of arms latched around his back as the Angel of Death gently smoothed out their balance, his wings appearing from his mortal guise, this time a miniature of their usual size and fluttering cutely. There had been a few benefits to contracting the Shrinks, after all, though the disadvantages at the time had far outweighed them.

He laughed as Heero slipped again, his nose and face still squished against the corner of his jaw. The mortal was stumbling over himself in hurry for another kiss, and he could feel the blush warming over his face at his sudden clumsiness. Finally, Shini leaned against the hallway wall, ending their frenzied, halfway-dance, and allowing Heero to get his feet beneath him, though his knees seemed to be entirely another matter.

Shini slouched against the wall, Heero's arms still locked behind the small of his back in a circle of possession, and lifted an eyebrow at him when he caught his breath. "Feeling all right, _Teishu_?" he purred, still smiling despite himself.

Heero blinked, but it didn't clear the dazed look he held. It was rather endearing, the way he couldn't stop gently licking and moving his lips, as if itching literally for more, and how his hair had become a little more disheveled than usual. "Aa," he breathed, still trying to catch his composure completely. The corner of his mouth curled backwards in a smirk. "Phenomenal."

And it was then that Heero's stomach chose to chime in and it let off a low sentence of complaint, and both god and mortal looked down at his torso, listening to it growl.

Shini lifted his head first, grinning. "Hungry, I take it?"

"Yeah. Maybe I didn't get the enough nutrition this morning," Heero murmured, sure he hadn't taken more than three or four bites of cereal in orange juice in bed, and unsure it would have done any good to have eaten any more.

His husband seemed not catch any of the underlying implications of that mumble, or either not to care about it, as he smiled brightly, straightening up against the wall where he had previously been trapped, and offered him lunch. "I can make pancakes, you know. With chocolate chips—even though I've never eaten them!" he said proudly. He moved away from Heero, headed for the kitchen and rolling back his sleeves, getting ready to go to work.

"No, no," Heero quickly cut in, taking Shini by the elbow and gently circling around him, getting in front of him. He made a somewhat sheepish sound, but masked it as he continued. "It wouldn't be fair. You made breakfast for me, so I'll make lunch for the both of us. It's more equal that way, since I couldn't buy you some ice cream. Is that alright with you?"

Shini pouted a little, pointing over his shoulder at the kitchen. "But _Teishu_, I wanted to do it for you." For a moment, he lifted an eyebrow at him as the tiniest sprout of suspicion stirred. "This does not have anything to do with Shinigami's cooking, does it?" he drawled.

Heero only blinked at him once or twice before cracking a slightly nervous smile in defense. "Of course not." Somehow, his previous, imperious expressions seemed no more powerful than a house of cards beneath that violet stare and he was completely susceptible to their twists and turns. Another few moments of agonizing appraisal passed, as the Angel of Death's eye still trained on him, arching his eyebrows and pulling back a corner of his mouth.

"Well, if you insist, _Teishu_," Shini finally conceded, though Heero could see that he knew the truth, and curled his mouth mischievously around the forbidden pet name as penalization for that fact. And no more. He smiled brightly and nudged his shoulder, pushing him towards the kitchen. "Then get to work, if you are so eager," he purred. "And don't over cook his ambrosia, either."

"Is that even possible?" he asked as he was pushed into the kitchen, turning his head and smirking.

"Is anything really impossible for you?" Shini quipped in return, stretching his arms above his arms, and disappearing for a moment, only to reappear at the kitchen table, legs folded on the seat, grinning, cat-like, as he watched his mortal husband go to work.

Heero raked a hand through his hair quickly before going to work, trying to restore it to a relatively normal state, try to flatten that which had been ruffled unnaturally, and went to the cupboard over the stove. Pulling out first a frying pan, and then a wok from the next one over, he placed them on the stovetop, each on its respective burner, and flicked on the power. Shini watched him stroll over to the refrigerator, pull it open, and then place the bowl of fresh peapods, chopped meat, and teriyaki onto the counter beside him for his stir-fry.

"Need help, _Teishu_?"

Heero simply leveled an even look at him, but a corner of a smile thieved its way out. "No. I don't. And no calling me _Teishu_." Shini just sent him a raspberry instead, and quickly went back to admiring his ring while Heero moved about the kitchen.

Bending down again, he squinted down at his refrigerator shelves, which had found themselves the victim of a major renovation by Iria's hand when Shinigami had moved back into his household, as one of her mandates for the proper care and maintenance of his very own Angel of Death. The shelves, ascetically no different than before, now stretched for what seemed like an eternity of fluorescent lighting back, back, back, into an artificial space filled with innumerable glass vials, bottles, and boxes of ambrosia and nectar—lemon-flavored ambrosia drops, steak from an amrita heifer, even bright yellow ambrosia carrots, as far as a mortal eye could see. And as soon as Heero had taken one, like an impatient assembly line, another one had moved up from the back to take its place. Too bad the stuff tasted horrendous, otherwise he could have gone for a lifetime without stepping foot in a grocery store, but Shini was forced to suffer the lackluster taste, lest he want to revisit his time writhing on a couch and whimpering in pain as the Shrinks came upon him. It was not something Heero wished to ever see again.

The Shinigami sat calmly by himself while the sound of Heero cooking continued on, droning gently off into the background, and lifted his hand to admire his ring again, wiggling his fingers and humming an old, archaic tune to himself. The sounds of the stovetop hissing and the pan warming, of Heero opening the container of snow peas, drawing a knife from the top drawer were taking a backseat as the Angel of Death began a slow and casual stroll into his memory, one that was currently saturated with recent, euphoric images of his husband. His long history previous to this blue-eyed mortal was suddenly a blink of an eye and all he cared to concern himself with was replaying three-day's worth of happy memories as he watched Heero's mother's diamond wink at him. He even let out a small smile, wondering what his mother would think, were she alive to see just _who _was currently wearing her ring.

Then again, it may have been a larger shock when she discovered who was _living _with her son. Almost dazed, Shini glanced back up at his husband, the mortal in question, and remained blindly smiling, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin there. For a moment, he made no real notice of anything happening around him, but soon a twin pair of white saucers appeared as he rapidly blinked his eyes wide and sat up ramrod straight. His mouth dropped in a gape. It took him another entire moment to gain enough control of it to squeak out, "_T-Teishu_?" and another few moments after that to wrap his mind around the task of getting to feet. The motion came out jerky and startled, and he teleported nervously only a foot and a half before dropping back into existence, unable to concentrate on it.

"Heero?" He called out again, but again nothing happened. He moved up to his husband cautiously and stared at his motionless expression. He threw a hand up, swinging it in front of his face. Nothing. He had completely frozen in his step, walking back over to the other side of the kitchen, as if some invisible voice had screamed, "Simon Says stop!" and he had immediately and completely obeyed. His eyes remained fixed on the wall just beyond Shini's head, not even his attractive lashes giving so much as a twitch.

_Now_ he was starting to get worried. He grabbed him by the shoulders to shake him, letting out now a squeal of rather anxious Japanese, and then let go of him. He was completely inflexible to the touch, and would not budge an inch.

"Heero, what happened to you? Heero? Can you hear me?" he asked, afraid to get closer to touch him, but his cord of worry not in the least bit severed from him. "_Teishu_, please!" Finally, he could not think of anything to do, he again reached out for his shoulder. That's when another hand laid upon it, startling him to high Heaven and causing him to let out a yelp of terror and vanish.

A moment later, the Shinigami reappeared in reality behind the being attached to that white hand, wielding the knife that Heero had left on the counter, and holding it tight to the intruder's back, the point just a deadly twitch away from the precious nerve endings that animated it.

"What the hell did you do to him." His voice told he was definitely not in the mood for negotiations.

"Shinigami!" a familiar voice suddenly scolded him, spinning around and knocking the knife out of his hand with a small gust of air and sending it clattering harmlessly to the ground. She turned and pinned a rather harsh look on him. "Young man, don't you _ever_ point that thing at me again!"

The Angel of Death went two shades paler. "_Okasan!_"

"Glad to see you still remember me," she answered him sarcastically, pinching her brows together and creating a crease Shinigami rarely saw. She was truly unhappy about something—again. When she lifted her arm, creating a short, sharp sound as she did so, and sent the knife flying solidly into the wall just above the counter for safekeeping, it only served to reiterate that fact.

Shinigami gave her a cautious look before taking a tiny step in front of his comatose husband. He did his best to subtly puff up in his mortal husband's clothes to warn her to step off. For some reason, he just knew that whatever new rage she was harboring was most likely directed at the Arrogant Mortal, but he didn't deserve _this_ kind of treatment, like he was just _any_ mortal for her to carelessly toy with.

"What did you do to him?" he growled at her, as if she were a demon that had crept into his household in the middle of the night. "And set it right again."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, I just stopped time. I didn't _kill_ him, Shini! Your precious husband's just fine and will be for a while. Just let him sit, would you?"

The Goddess of Love angrily put her hands on her hips and strode over to the kitchen table in a pair of fire engine red pumps to match her red mini-skirt and long-sleeved white shirt—an item which would have been demure enough in itself had it not been buttoned down the last lowly three buttons, revealing the equally garish color of her brassier. Her rather anxious-looking secretary was with her as well, standing in the archway between the kitchen and the hallway, in a short white baby-doll dress and red-ribbon bow at her back. She was looking at Shinigami through her cat-eyed glasses with a little apprehension, for the last time she'd seen him, he'd been completely and thoroughly heartbroken, and that haunting image was hard to wipe from her memory as she stared at him, but he wasn't looking at her in return. Instead, he was focused on the bundle in a red velvet sack she clutched to her breast. He tilted his head as he looked, his expression going askew, but his mother's deceptively conversational voice drew him back to her.

"So, darling, how have you been?" She had slung one leg over the other, sitting in the chair he had just recently vacated. She was smiling. It was not right.

So he lifted an eyebrow at her, setting his mouth. "I'd be much better if you let my husband back into the normal flow of space of time."

She tilted her head to let an innocent smirk unfurl across it. "My, my—not very well then, I see? You're much more cranky than usual," she purred. "So maybe he hasn't been treating you as divinely as you claim he has?"

He lowered his jaw, an undeniably defense stance, as he grit out a dangerous voice. He put an arm out, gripping the shoulder of his frozen husband, the other at the ready to fight. "Just fix him and leave us alone."

"Or you'll do _what_, Shini?" she suddenly raised her voice at him, standing up from her chair abruptly.

"You'll disobey me again? You'll stomp and cry and throw a tantrum? You'll complain? _Fight_ me? For all of your life, it has been _I_ have who has taken care of you, defended you from the Gods themselves, and risked my neck and reputation for your sake too many times to count, you know. Do you remember me now? I think it's about time you stopped this ridiculous bratty behavior and did what I say!"

"You haven't even told me what you want!" he snapped back. He may have even stomped his foot at her in an earlier time, but he had since learned a new stubbornness from his husband and instead shot a scowl at her.

"Oh." She hesitated. "I didn't?"

Shini emphatically rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

"Well, then, why didn't you just say so, Shinigami? For Heaven's sake," she muttered to herself. "Standing there like the Damned Mortal himself…"

"Excuse me?" the Angel of Death interrupted his mother, his face quickly growing sour. He certainly disliked this new, rather affectionate nickname even more than the last.

Iria dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand, tossing her long, bright blonde hair over her shoulder as she strolled casually over to Shinigami and his motionless statue of a husband. He still maintained an unwavering staring contest with the wall just behind the kitchen table, and at this point he stood a good chance of winning it. It wasn't a thought that necessarily comforted the Shinigami, and he was still standing protectively in front of Heero, the corners of his mouth drawn into unhappy hooks, as his mother approached. She stopped beside him, tilting her head as she examined the side of his face.

Shini tensed up, more than willing to retaliate should she come too close to him, but she didn't. Instead, she glanced up at her son, after carefully studying his choice in a spouse.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Shini," she began, in a voice that seemed unusually serious. He had to resist a little snort—when was she ever tactful? "I don't think you deserve such treatment from your husband, no matter how much you love him. It's getting to be intolerable, in fact. I've been watching carefully, and this ungrateful creature doesn't so much as—"

"Treatment?" Shini interrupted again, his brows shooting up, then dragging back down to furrow in skepticism. "What are you _talking_ about, _Okasan_?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Shini. Don't play dumb with me just for his sake! I am still _your_ mother, you know!"

Shinigami wasn't sure what had happened to upset his mother so, for she was behaving much more bad-tempered than was even normal for her, and even Nadette was cringing in the doorway at the tone of her voice. And still she clutched that inexplicable bundle, her eyes flickering back and forth from Shinigami to the comatose Heero—yet another detail that did not sit well with him.

"No, I don't," he restated, putting his hands on his hips. "_Teishu_ has been treating me just fine. So why are you here asking me? Can't you just yell and complain on his phone?"

"Shini," Iria cooed, in a tone that could only be described down as well-meant condescending, "you don't have to lie about it to me. I can help you fix this whole thing. It's simple."

The Angel of Death drew his eyebrows tighter together than he already had and halfway grimaced. There was a sudden horrible taste in his mouth that foretold of something ridiculous about to creep out of his mother's mouth. And he was right.

"I've been watching you and your husband, Sugar, and I know that you haven't slept together and as far as I'm concerned he hasn't really so much as _touched_ you. But don't worry about it—we'll turn that Damned Mortal around and make sure you are treated the way you are _supposed _to be treated, and not like you're some antique or withered old lady, for Heaven's sake—"

"Wait, wait, wait. Is _that_ what _this_ is about?"

Iria straightened up, painting a look of almost-surprise on her face. "What else would it be about?"

And it was just at that moment that Shinigami would have liked nothing more than to scream at his mother to get the hell out of his house, but it was the fine wave of shock that rolled over him at that moment and the rising sense of disgust and revolt that prevented him from doing just that. He even leaned slightly backward into Heero's unmoving form, still staring at the wall. The frozen fist of Time had glued him to the spot and he didn't so much as budge. But the slight loss of what to do quickly faded away and was replaced with true outrage as his mother continued without too much concern as her son stumbled and gaped at her.

"I mean, what kind of marriage is that, anyway?" The Goddess of Love had sunk back into her seat, as she was through with fussing and standing up at the same time (it was not good for her complexion) and waved a hand at her secretary. Nadette startled for a moment, then quickly clip-clopped over, still clutching the strange velvet bundle in one hand as she lifted the other and summoned a delicate, blood red fan to hand to her employer. With a rather disinterested look, her lips pinching together as she fanned herself.

"You should remember how lucky you are to have me and my connections to get you such a marriage—it's a high treason against the High Council, you know. I'm constantly risking my neck and my eternal soul just so you can lie around and _cuddle_ with your mortal hubby? I don't think so, Shini. This is going to be a real marriage. Immediately."

Shini stomped his foot, trying to get her attention. It only made Nadette flinch and watch him, wide-eyed. "_Okasan—_!"

"It's ridiculous!" She rolled her eyes in her painted-up face, brushing the long blonde hair from her eyes with long, red nails. "You're the most seductive Angel of Death to ever grace the pits of Hell, because you are my son, after all, and he doesn't even so much as _look_ at you lustfully. Just ridiculous!"

He was now turning slightly red. "Well, I've caught him doing it a few times, but he gets shy and pretends not to—"

"I mean, it's not like you're _inexperienced_, by any means! And not the least bit shy about it, either! When was the last time you even had some fun, Shini? Hundreds of years? More than that? Let's face it, it's about time you had _something_ to do. It's not good for you—"

"No, no, no!"

Shinigami suddenly barked at his mother, stepping sharply away from his comatose husband, as if he could actually hear the conversation being currently held in a pocket outside of Time, and shot over to her side, glaring down at her as she sat in the chair. She glanced up from fiddling with her newly done nails to gaze up at him in return, and saw a frustrated flush burn across his face. His newly acquired sense of defiance and independent sovereignty (a product of staying in close proximity to the Arrogant Mortal, she had no doubt) was shining through cleaner and clearer.

"Whatever it is you want me to do, forget it!" he snapped, suddenly unable to stand the look of her face, that disinterested but faultfinding stare beneath her makeup. It made something hot and tight wind in his stomach, a feeling stronger than any that he'd drudged up in all their disagreements, and quickly growing in contempt. "Heero and I are doing just fine, and whatever happens between will be because _we_ want to and _we _won't be let ourselves get bossed around just because of your opinions."

The Goddess of Love's face had turned to mild shock, then fury as her son continued, towering over her, and quickly clenched the arms of the chair, itching to fly to her feet and return the argument in full. "I never—! That bastard's gotten his claws into your, I knew it!"

"You helped pick him out!"

Iria shot up to her feet, the red fan disappearing as she moved, and caused her son to step back, but only minimally. Nadette had shrunk off into the distance, listening to the voices rapidly heat up, crowed behind the wall and peering around the corner. "I should have forgotten him the instant he tried to abandon you and then—"

He stomped his foot. "No, I ran away!"

"It was his careless mistake that gave you the Shrinks and nearly _killed_ you, I'll have you know, Shini, and—"

Then he groaned and shook his head furiously. "That was mine! It was my fault!"

"What do you think you're going to do here, Shini? After all this goddamned work, I'm not going to sit back and watch you guys play house. This is the _last_ time I'll find you a home to stay in, Shinigami, so you'd better make it a _real_ one!"

Finally, the Angel of Death took a step forward brazenly. The sudden, unexpected move, putting him directly into his mother's face and into the stance of an antagonist, caused her to momentarily hesitate and blink at him. "I'm making tons of progress on my _own_, _Okasan_!" he told her firmly, violet eyes turning fiery and dark as he spoke. "And neither Heero or I want you here. Go home and read your magazines or something."

Without missing a beat, she leveled an even look at him, hardening her expression, and took him by the wrist. It took a few moments for him to grasp that she was glaring at the Heero's ring, clutching her long, blood red nails into his skin as she twisted his arm to better examine the token of commitment.

"What's this?" she purred lowly.

"None of your business, _Okasan_," he growled back, pulling his arm through her tight grasp as if she were nothing more than air.

A thin scowl of mixed thoughts crossed her face for a moment, then shrunk to merely a sour corner of her mouth as she opened it to speak again. "I was only thinking of you, Shinigami," she said considerably softer than before. "I don't want to make you angry, but I don't want to see him neglect, you either. And such things just happen to be my area of _expertise_, you know."

Shini resisted the urge to suddenly grimace. He did not like the sound of this in the least. He'd seen his mother's work.

"That's why I came here—to make a proposition, a way to instantly fix your husband's seemingly faulty sex drive."

"It is not!" Shini snapped back. It was harder, this time, to resist making some ill-fated comment on his mother's rocky and undesirable past relationships and perhaps even the unthinkable—accusing her of any sort of sexual immorality—and risking the launch of another and hellish tirade ten times as bad as the last.

"Shini, darling," came the responding purr as one pale hand came to rest on his shoulder, "I don't think you know what you're missing, otherwise you'd been in agreement with me."

A low, almost devilish light had sprung to life in her eyes, reaching down to her mouth, which curled now on each side. The Angel of Death gazed up into that familiar look, one was sure he'd worn quite a few times, and felt something fill the pit of his stomach. His mother's hand had become unusually warm, all of a sudden, and her fingertips were five, hot contacts on his shoulder which abruptly connected with the feeling in his stomach and abruptly he was no longer in the kitchen. His breath left him as he fell backwards into illusion and onto something soft and flat, but he wasn't alone. Heero lay wrapped around him as if letting him go would drop him into a cold, black oblivion, and his mouth wandered back and forth on his neck lazily, disheveled, deep brown hair brushing the line of his jaw, as they lay, warm and disconnected from the world but simultaneous touching every part of it.

Shini let out a groan of surprise, then lifted his head, as the mortal continued to brush his half-parted lips against the curve of his neck, to see his mother's smug expression hanging over him as she bent over the non-existent bed where the two laid. She arched one eyebrow, the garish red tone of her eyeshadow only accenting the smirk she bore. "Convinced yet?" she purred, folding her arms. "No? Or maybe this'll stir your cocoa a little more."

And then it was brutal lips against his, so anxious and impatient they tasted like liquid fire, jumping back and forth as Heero's fingers clutched at the clothes separating them, clawing. There was no way to get them away soon enough, and with each layer—a shirt, halfway buttoned still, resisting staunchly the expulsion before being carelessly dropped from fingers. Shini couldn't breathe as each removal of an article of clothing caused a momentary separation but Heero would close it split-seconds later with a vengeance, uniting the complete plane of their bodies, and turning Shini's vision into nothing but sparks and a blind need to see nothing but him. A hot coil was turning low in his stomach, and it was a familiar sensation, but his brain was lost, completely annihilated by the lustful sighs escaping Heero's mouth and the expression in his eyes, beneath lowered lashes, watching him for the moment before he crushed their lips together, accelerating the fire.

And then he was in the kitchen again, and his mother was standing before him, neatly folding her arms and smirking. And he was at a complete lost, still searching for an ounce of oxygen in his breath and his mind yet to stop its rapid, erratic spin.

"So," she said, "I take that as a yes?"

Shini numbly nodded to whatever noise had come from his mother's figure, but he was most definitely not with her, a few steps behind, and understandably so. She smirked.

"Great! Then you'll be needing these," the Goddess of Love purred, snapping her fingers so the red velvet bundle reappeared in her confident grip. Once so mysterious to him, he now only dully stared through it as she opened it, repeatedly shaking his head to the side, trying to dislodge the very agreeable illusion like it was caught on a corner in his mind.

"Now, you're going to need to give these to him every day. Whichever way you can, I guess." She removed a ruby red vial from the satchel and lifted it to the light, pinched between her long nails. The thin liquid inside glistened a light pink and she smiled at it. "Yes, this one'll do, I think."

She then collected a few more similar vials and then reached out to her dumbfounded son, pulled his hands out in front of him, palms skyward, and dumped them into his hands. For a moment, he remained stone still, and then she closed his fingers around them.

"Don't you dare drop those," she warned. "They're worth twice my soul in gold, and just as illegal as you and your little mortal hubby. It's only been used once before—some pair of Italian kids, who got worked up over their in-laws and ended up killing themselves—so I got it for a deal. Damn nymph didn't even knew what she was giving up."

Shini's mouth had now numbly parted and his weight was swaying gently back and forth while the better part of his brain was just turning foggy and halfway returned to reality. Just few feet behind him, Heero was soundly on his way to winning that staring contest, still boring a hole into the wall overhead.

Nadette had walked quietly over to Iria's side. "Take this, would you, hon," she murmured, not really asking, and put the satchel into her hands. The Goddess of Love raised her hand again, lowering the other, palm up, and snapped her finger. A small blood red lacquer box appeared, which she opened up, revealing a light pink layer of velvet inside. She gave a nod to her assistant, who then transferred the tiny vials into their new container, tentatively curling Shini's pliable fingers away from them first.

Iria clamped the box shut a moment later and her hand continued to press down as it shrunk into a tiny replicate of itself. She put it back into her son's grasp as he finally seemed to revive, though his eyes blinked and darted in confusion, raking up and down her face. Still clasping her hands over his, she bent down to place a peck on his flushed cheek and straightened up again, grinning. "Gotta go, Shini, but your brother will be here the day after tomorrow to seal the deal, alright?"

The Angel of Death, currently very confused and turning pale beneath his flush, squeaked out, "What? _Okasan?_" He tried to clamp down on her hand as she moved, but unsuccessfully. In a split second, she was at the archway to the hallway, hurrying on her bright red pumps and looking back over her shoulder.

"No, no, honey, I gotta go, alright? Ciao!"

Shini's mouth hinged open once or twice, still waiting for some coherent answer to arrive from his brain, but only managed out a half-strangled, "Brother?" before she turned around the corner and was undoubtedly gone.

It was only when he uncurled his fist, revealing the tiny lacquer box in the creases of his palm, when Time finished slowly unthawing, sending the unaware Heero careening neatly into his back and nearly knocking both of them over.

* * *

A/N: Long time between updates, I know, but _finally_ my AP classes are through and I can get back to doing what I really want to do. And it's a nice, long, and involved chapter, too, so I hope you enjoyed. The title is a fricking fantastic Pillows song, meaning "Give me more love." Hopefully a new update soon! 


	36. Cupido

Chapter 36

"Cupido"

Shini did his best not to act abnormally, but it was becoming harder than he expected. He feigned a tired sigh, smacking his lips and readjusting his head on his makeshift pillow. It was harder than he thought to avoid his husband's wary eyes and made him feel anxious and deceitful. It was no something that came naturally to him—after all, he had raised hell just a few days ago, raging against all odds just so he could be with his beloved mortal, threatening his mother, losing his mind, and now he was curled up on top of the ceiling fan, trying to fake a believable snore as he passed by below.

Shini squinted one eye open and glanced downward. Heero had his nose in a book as he strolled through the hallway, seeming to barely notice anything around him. Nothing about him suggested he suspected anything at all. He made little more fuss than a surprised face when they had collided in the kitchen. He hadn't seen or noticed a thing as far as Shini knew, and if he did, he was not showing it.

He lifted his head, opening both eyes, and peered further downward, trying to glance at the words his husband was reading. It was that movement that stirred up a lick of dust into the air. The God of Death, who was currently in a half-solid state to avoid simply breaking the fan and tumbling to the floor, felt something twitch inside of his nose, scrunched it up and let out a silent snort as he choked back a sneeze. It revolted inside his throat and sinus, burning, and filled him with an odd, plugged feeling.

He held his breath as Heero lifted his head the slightest amount at the sound. He tore his eyes away from the book an instant later with a cautious silence. Walls were eyed, hallway checked, and silence carefully observed for a moment before he shrugged to himself and reinvested himself in the book. Without another thought, he had wandered back into the living room and managed to flop down on the couch with nose thoroughly lodged in the book.

And then the sneeze ripped through the block, the Shinigami solidified, and crashed to the floor.

Heero started at the sound, and quickly shut the book. "Shini?"

The Angel of Death sat up, spitting out dust and flapping his miniature-sized wings in distress, with his husband quickly at his side, helping him up. His expression was torn halfway between concern and laughter as he reached up and picked out a fragment of the broken fan out of his hair. "What the hell were you doing up there, might I ask?" Heero said. "And what are you doing down here now?"

"Accident," he mumbled, flushing purple from embarrassment and the blue blood that ran in his veins.

He purposely avoided giving an explanation of why he'd been up there in the first place, hoping that it would slip past his husband. Of course, it didn't, but Heero only looked at him with a cocked eyebrow, and proceeded to dust off his hair. He'd been doing that more often than usual, for Shinigami had plenty of odd, Hell-born habits, since his mother had frozen Time without his knowledge. Shini's instinct told him that Heero possessed abilities beyond average mortals, and that included sensing changes in the fabric around him and holding Darkness—if he didn't, he would see Shini as no more than a thick, dark shadow, if at all.

So he probably knew something had happened, but not what, and gave Shini the benefit of the doubt. "Well, be more careful next time, huh?" he said, still smiling gently. He was far more relieved he hadn't hurt himself than concerned about his broken fan and brushed a stray bang from his eyes. "If you want to take a nap, we have a bed, you know."

Shini leaned into the touch and smiled back. "I'm sorry about breaking your—uh, thing-a-ma-jig."

"Don't worry about it. I never use it, anyway." Heero paused, making a funny expression. "Where did you learn a word like that?"

"I've had other caretakers who spoke English, _Teishu_," he purred, now melting into the mortal's hand as it cradled the side of his face. Especially fascinated by the electric-blue tone of immortal blood, Heero brushed his thumb across his cheekbones where he flushed slightly violet. "But that was so long ago. Let's talk about something else, _ne?_"

"What about?" Heero asked, purposely lowering his voice and moving to unite more of their bodies so that Shinigami would whimper and lean further into him.

"Dunno," he answered, curling the corner of his mouth back as he sought to finish the embrace properly. But as soon as their lips touched, the phone shouted. A cold wind blew across Heero's face and he found himself standing alone in the middle of the hallway, blinking dumbly at the red light illuminated on the phone. It rang once more before Shini reappeared, falling into reality a few startled feet away, heart throbbing and eyes wide. Heero immediately went to help him up, but the Angel of Death determinedly got to his feet, looking rather embarrassed to have startled so. On the third ring, the mortal turned, crossed the kitchen, and picked up, interrupting the fourth, shrill cry.

"Hello?"

Taking a moment to meticulously comb down his hair and pick out another crumbly piece of the ceiling, Shini did not notice Heero's face shift into confusion until he called out again, seeming to receive no answer.

"Hello?" he asked again, looking only mildly displeased, and hung up with a shrug. "Huh." Then, without so much as another moment's consideration, turned around and looked at Shini, already smiling as he prepared to neatly continue their tangent. This would have posed no trouble to his husband under normal circumstances, but suddenly trouble manifested itself. Images of moments spent outside Time blinked in front of the Angel of Death, knotting a ball of guilt and worry that felt as heavy as sin in the bottom of his stomach. The tiny box sitting unobtrusively in his pocket now more closely resembled a burning hot colter against his thigh.

"Who was that?" Shini asked. Even as Heero approached him, he began to feel more and more the sting of guilt, knowing full well that his mother made no empty threats. Knowing full well that everything would not continue to go as it so wonderfully had as his intuition told him. And his intuition was also very sure that there had been someone on the other end of the line.

"Nobody, I guess," Heero answered him, quickly brushing the idea aside and closing the gap. Shini melted forward to his touch and smiled into his mouth at it, but soon that nagging guilt had even traveled upward into his mouth, turning the sensation of his husband's lips into a hot punch of crime. He pulled away at the thought and brought out a strange expression on Heero's face.

"What's wrong?" he asked, this time lessening the benefit of the doubt and giving Shini a sincerely worried look. There was a touch of prodding curiosity behind it, which frightened him more. He knew something was happening.

Or perhaps that was a touch of paranoia. The Shinigami couldn't tell.

So he smiled sheepishly and shook his head, taking Heero by the elbows and nudging him close again. "Sorry—had a little hiccup, is all," he said, hoping dearly he would accept the explanation. At the same time, the guilt swelled again at the thought of deceiving Heero, no matter how mildly.

Heero's worried look didn't evaporate. "Are you feeling well?" The back of his hand went to Shini's forehead, pushing his bangs out of the way.

Shini whined and shied his head away. "Yes, yes, I feel fine. I'm not sick." However, Heero was not buying into this excuse.

"Why don't you take a nap in a real bed, instead of snoozing on the ceiling fan? You look like you could use it," he suggested.

Shini scrunched up his nose, as if in offense. "I do not," he shot back.

Heero smiled gently, as if to ease the motherhen-ness of what he was about to say next—which it didn't. "You should. You might still be affected by the Shrinks. It wasn't that long ago, you know, and you might be vulnerable to other things—"

"But I can't get it again, and I don't wanna." It was only after he'd stomped his foot that he realized he was probably well on his way to losing the argument and grimaced.

Heero tilted his head thoughtfully at him and reached in and gave him another kiss. "I'm not going to force you, Shin. I'd never treat you like that," he muttered against the corner of his mouth. "That disease scared the hell out of me, that's all." He stepped away, still holding his book in one hand, still smiling. He started drifting back towards the living room and a couch in the sunlight with his name on it, lifting the book in invitation. "I'm reading this book about Death Gods I checked out three years ago and never returned. I think you'd like it. It says in here the Shinigami has black skin like a snake." He laughed.

Shini hesitated, but followed him, without noticing the guilty poison waiting for him at the pit of his stomach at some later point in time. At this point, he was more than content to follow his mortal husband into the living room. "They do," he said, walking after. "Just not me."

Less than an hour later, Shini had fallen asleep and lapsed into that nap he had so vehemently argued against. It was not in the bed, though, as Heero had suggested, but on Heero himself, lying on his chest beneath the book. Heero found himself hearing fewer and fewer remarks about the true nature of hellions and correcting the spellings of demon names as he read on and saw an evenly rising chest.

He watched Shini sleep for a moment, then absently brushed the long tail of hair that curled out from underneath the Angel of Death's neck and up in a winding trail over his chest. He rested the book on Shini's shoulder as he reached up to grab the tip of that tail of hair. Shini curled up around the weight of the book in his sleep. He twitched it in front of his nose, looked down, and smiled. "I think we have to find a new way to keep your hair, Shin," he murmured, then slung one arm around him and continued reading just past his husband's ear.

* * *

Shini didn't wake throughout the process of his husband trying to rouse him or cooking dinner and eating on the couch beside his near comatose form, watching an old subtitled black and white American movie. Nor did he wake when Heero left him momentarily, letting his head fall to the cushions and current of chestnut hair run down and pool on the floor. He returned, camera slung around his neck and a smug and playful slung across his face that Shini wouldn't see. Even when the iridescent bulb whirred to life and snapped out a flash as bright as the break of dawn, he remained dead to the world. Even when Heero decided to take him upstairs, carrying him with no certain ease, and put him in their bed, he snored on. Even when Heero himself finally curled up with his husband, nothing stirred him and he slept on into the early hours of the morning.

But when the red numbers of the clock turned and struck the Devil's Hour, his eyes snapped open on a darkened room.

Shini found himself immediately and completely aware of his surroundings. Heero was sleeping, loosely draped on whatever body part he could reach, facing the Shinigami's back as he slept on the edge of the bed. The light punctuation of his breathing hung in the air, alone. Moonlight was peering in through the exposed window, forming a mystic, dreamy white square on the book which Heero had left on the beside table, the letters of 'Death Gods' catching the light and turning silver. He woke with the impression that he had not been asleep naturally and he was slipping out of the grasp of something. Something was not right in all the silence.

Shini was made of Darkness, created from the scale of the first Reaper, the Father Shinigami, and a given life by a feather of the Goddess of Love. He could feel it pulse and gently hum within the entire house. He always had sensed shadows, and such perception had sharpened with age so that he could feel the slightest pulses of Light created by the life within a plant within the Dark. Since coming to stay with his mortal husband, and especially since his recovery of power after the Shrinks, he knew every crevice and crack of his home that filled with shadow.

The crack beneath the bedroom door began glowing soft white. Shini felt the Light of a deathless being spark into existence in the house and sat up.

The room filled with Dark. The Angel of Death felt his influence on the shadows surge and hiss in provocation around him, forming a guard around Heero's oblivious sleeping form. Wings silently erupted from his back, flexing their sin-black feathers in the moonlight, muscles arching and tensing for an attack and the unwavering defense of his husband. Shini felt his power form a growl low in his throat and got out of bed, setting his jaw and clenching his right hand around a staff of Darkness.

No one invaded his home. _No _one, Immortal or not.

Before he opened the door, Shini paused to turn and look at Heero, who slept, no wiser to the change or his absence. He stopped, took a double take, and hesitated another moment, for there was a clean, untainted white glow coming from his mortal husband, standing stark and unafraid against the Dark. Shini felt something turn over in his stomach with a confusing taste of both confusion and gladness, but the sensation of a presence lingering downstairs pulled him away, rousing his furious, protective fire again. A living wraith, he turned and walked down the stairs, shutting the door to the bedroom with a gust of shadowy wind.

Shini found it hard to believe that it would be as easy as walking down the hallway to find the intruder, but his disbelief did not slacken the territorial fury that filled him and made his knuckles white around the staff he'd materialized out of Darkness, squaring to face the stranger sitting at the kitchen table. Part of the light which had drawn him downstairs was the hints of life Shini could sense interrupting his Dark, but also the kitchen lights glowing gently over the table, illuminating the long, platinum blond hair running down the back of the chair.

"Get out," Shini spat at the figure so venomously he wasn't sure which language it came out in. There would be no time wasted on chitchat or negotiations. "I want you out, now."

The figure did not move. It only remained sitting, back to the Shinigami, and stared at the wall opposite. Shini's emotions of fury calmed enough for him to consider the being that sat before him. The white-blond hair, longer than his, nearly touched the ground and was bound at the nape by a large red ribbon. The back was bare, pressed up against the chair, marked by large, square shoulders and what looked to be an empty quiver and bow. Shini could see the swathes of luminous, milk-colored robes flowing down onto the floor.

It didn't move. Shini's bare feet tensed, nearly ripping into the floorboards as Darkness hissed out from underneath him in a steam of anger. "Get out," he repeated. He clutched the staff at his side, which also smoked beneath his infuriated touch.

The figure laughed. Shini whipped his weapon out in front of him, both hands gripping and creating a hot black steam that evaporated with a crackle of energy. He watched the being, obviously a male by the deep, gruff tone of voice, continue to laugh to himself as he reached out and touched the vase in the center of the table. Shinigami suddenly saw that same vase, bathed in sunlight as Heero set it out and touched the flower sitting inside, and his anger swelled.

"Just who the hell do you think you are?" Shini asked, flapping his wings once and casting a menacing shadow over the kitchen floor.

The stranger casually took his hand away from touching the petals of the rose, then glanced down at the polished floor at Shini's silhouette.

"Mother's right. You have fallen under your mortal's influence. You're just as stubborn and profane as him," he said, finally turning his head to look coolly back at him. "It is too bad that I never got the chance to know you before his wicked influence."

Shini blinked at him, though his mouth was still slung in a grimace of warning and brows drawn.

The intruder laughed again. Beneath his white-blond bangs, Shini saw amusement cross his long, masculine face and light in his aqua-blue eyes. "You give your brother an awfully cold welcome. Don't you have anything to say, Shinigami the 13th?"

"Get out," he hissed again, his voice turning to a violent slur and his wings arching, ready for attack.

The intruder stood up from the chair with the undeniable grace and speed of an Immortal. He loomed, much taller than he appeared seated, and from his back emerged a pair of wings, hawkish and robust as opposed to Shini's broad and lissome spread, crimson red bleeding into gold bleeding into emerald green at the tips. He arched a pale brow at the Angel of Death. "You've already said that," he taunted. He took immense pleasure out of the furious expression Shini tried to lance him with. "Come now, give your brother a hug."

"Why are you here?"

"Mother sent me," he replied. "You know that. And watch your tone, younger brother."

"You have no place here. _She _has no place here." Shini, welding the staff like a katana, set his shoulders and made no ambiguous stance. His violet eyes, flecked with glowing spots of Darkness, narrowed angrily over the shaft of his weapon. "Leave, please."

His brother did no such thing. So Shini made good on his threat and, with a crack of energy sounding his fury, disappeared and reappeared mere feet from the intruder and swung violently at him. The intruder sidestepped the attack, the staff connecting with only the tip of his long tail of hair. Shini stumbled forward. He had fully anticipated connecting that blow, and whirled to face his target as quickly as he could—but not fast enough.

The being claiming to be his brother stood at the other side of the kitchen, pulling the string of his bow taut.

"See you tomorrow, brother," he said calmly, smiling over a glittering blue-white arrowhead. He let it fly and Shinigami staggered backward, staring in horror at the shaft lodged cleanly in the left of his chest. His eyes shifted back to his assailant, but his vision was divided and blurred, jumping irregularly from light to dark and his body sagging and Dark energy sputtering and whimpering. He caught one blurry glance of his sibling—a most unpleasant one at that—before he felt the floor and knew blackness.


	37. Gift Horse Mouth

Chapter 37

"Gift Horse Mouth"

Shini awoke with a start that sent him flying to his feet out of bed, kicking the sheets off in a furious tangle in the sunlight of another morning. It was a few moments of kicking and hopping before his mind bubbled up out of sleep to match his body and he realized that he was tripping over his own feet and Heero's tousled head was blinking at him from the bed. The Angel of Death fell to the floor, his great black wings beating once in vain—for Shini had not realized that flapping them would send him even faster toward the ground—before he landed with a _thud_.

He groaned and his wings, bruised and fluttering in a silent whimper, shrunk and disappeared between his bare shoulderblades, leaving tiny, sable down hanging in the air.

The sunlight poured in the windowpane, painting a square of light around the Shinigami where he lay, in a pair of his mortal husband's pajama bottoms and long tail of hair narrowly contained in a hair binder as it splayed out beneath him. He blinked silently for a moment, then looked down his nose to see Heero chuckle, crawl back over to his side of the bed, and stand up. As he started to stretch and pat down his wild brown hair in futility, Shini was suddenly plagued with memory and the cold and controlled smile of his so-called brother over an arrowhead.

Shini gasped and quickly felt around his chest for the deadly shaft that had pierced his blue-blooded heart, mind still blurred from thick sleep. He did not remember coming to lie back down with his husband, nor even lifting himself from the kitchen floor after he had fallen—and he certainly did not remember traveling to the Land of the Dead if the arrow had indeed pierced him. His fingers clutched around nothing but his unmarked skin and confusion crawled into his bright violet eyes. He'd felt it. He'd felt the arrowhead clack between his ribs and settle in flesh, but there was not a mark to hint that he'd ever known the point of any arrow. There was no hint of any outstanding emotion on Heero's face to suggest he'd found him on the floor in the kitchen, pierced cleanly, and no remembrance of returning to bedroom or otherwise leaving the kitchen.

Maybe it had just been a dream.

"Nightmare?" Heero asked, purring out the word as he usually did when speaking on a good morning. He strolled over to his husband lying on the floor and looked down at him with an amused tilt. "It must have been pretty bad to scare you out of bed. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, _Teishu_. Just tired, is all," Shini answered in a sigh, then let his head fall to the floor. His vision crept across the ceiling, though his mind flipped through a flurry of troubling and fresh memories.

Brother… _Okasan_ had never mentioned any brother. She never spoke a word of any other children she may have had, and his only siblings were Shinigami. The being who had assaulted him last night—or not—was definitely not a Death God of any sort, whoever he was. Not of Darkness, not of Light. Not a Death or Life God, not a demon or empowered human spirit. Without noticing his husband's movements toward him, Shini plunged back into his memory and dredged up the image of that long, chiseled face and controlling smile, trying to tie to a name he might have heard in his long past.

But Heero crawling over him and uniting their bodies again quickly chased away all productive thought and he abandoned the mental search for a physical one, grinning and rubbing that grin on his husband's. When their lips parted for a breath of air, Shini had risen halfway off the floor, wrapping his arms tightly around Heero's thinly clad torsos and running his mouth along the curve of his neck. Heero's hand was touching the waistband of his own pajama pants, now worn (rather well) by a God of Death and breathing softly on the nape of his neck. "What do you want to do today?" he asked, and waited until Shini had stopped running his mouth lazily over his neck to receive the answer.

Shini leaned back, still wrapped happily around him, and arched a brow for good measure. "Is there something you had in mind?" he purred and reached up to rub noses. Heero smiled and laughed, shaking his head at the gesture.

"Actually, I did," he answered in a voice of low seduction, making Shini arch both brows and murmur an intrigued, "Hm? What, _Teishu?_"

"I thought we could go for a long ride, then go visit my mother's favorite shrine," he said, briefly kissing Shini, punctuating his list. "And I was thinking I could take you to a nice, crowded noodle shop for lunch so you could see one—they are your favorite, right?"

Shini enthusiastically answered "Yes," with another kiss, and Heero continued on. "Hmm. Then, I think I'll take some pictures with my anniversary gift. Do some work that maybe I could sell, some just for us to see." Shini grinned impishly at this, an expression that was of borderline resemblance to a more wicked expression of his mother, though Heero supposed a little similarity was inevitable and not necessarily unattractive—she _was_ the famed Goddess of Love, after all, and what she sorely lacked in tact and refinement she definitely compensated with physical good looks. "And when we get home, I don't plan to be out of bed for a very long time. Not until the sun comes up tomorrow, that is," he added in a low purr, catching Shini's lower lip again.

The Angel of Death gladly agreed without a word, moving his arms to hook around his neck, and for a moment his lids flickered to glance at his husband's face, but that was not where they landed. Shini instead found himself staring up at the long, lean figure of his supposed brother standing over and observing with a cold, drawn smile. His body swathed in the classical white robe of myth and colorful wings drawn and fluttering in amusement, he kept Shini's gaze as he slung the bow of his shoulder and reached back into his quiver. That smile was almost cruel. A flash of blood red gleamed off the tip of his arrowhead as it moved.

Shini yelped in alarm and dropped away from his husband, parting their happily engaged lips with a musical _pop! _and landing heavily on his back.

"Shin?" Heero asked a moment before his husband threw him to the floor, sheltering him with wings that burst through his shoulder blades and arched like a scorpion's tail around him. Heero made a confused noise as his chest hit the floor, knocking his jaw squarely in the process, and felt the Darkness whirl out of Shini's pores in a nasty, twisting barrier that glowed with a cold heat. He felt an odd tug all over his skin respond with a clean, icy cold and quickly sat up, rubbing his chin.

"Shini—what are you doing?"

The Angel of Death, currently crouched over his barely-clad husband in the middle of the floor, wings arched at full spread and nearly touching the ceiling over head, sat panting and staring starkly into the air. His inhumanly violet eyes flickered and colored light with confusion. Heero watched his expression distort back and forth from confusion to fear, smeared with outrage, then put a hand on his shoulder. Shini looked back over at him, blinked, and started looking again.

"Hey." Heero sat up, running a hand through the soft down near the base of his left wing. "What's wrong?"

The clean cold that washed over him told him something was wrong, poking at him like tiny frozen needlepoints delicately drawing over him. Something was there, he knew suddenly, from the panicked, searching eyes that crawled across the room. His hand was clutched around a solid, invisible mass, with white light crawling over his fingertips and dissolving in sparks. He ran his tongue nervously over his lips, then looked back over his shoulder again at Heero's hand. "I don't know," he said finally, then surveyed the room again, easing to his knees, then sitting down, dropping whatever invisible weapon he'd clutched at so that Heero could hear a noiseless thud.

Heero rubbed his shoulder for a moment, but did not want to sit in silence for too long. "How long has it been here?" he asked.

Shini didn't turn to look at him. He knew he'd been mildly caught. "A day, I think," he answered. "Sorry that I didn't tell you. I felt guilty..." He purposely excluded his mother's visit, realizing it probably would do little good at this point and dreading the feelings of guilt and regret it would still up.

"I could tell," Heero muttered in reply, remembering the poignant way Shini had looked at him, pulling away from his touch the day before. "Is it dangerous? Do you know what it is?"

"I don't know. It's my brother… I think." It was then that he looked back at Heero, who was quickly succumbing to his own expression of confusion and surprise, with a worried grimace. "Can we make a stop at the library?"

* * *

Dabriel greatly regretted his decision to spend the day with his boss, especially on this a day tormented by her wrath. But there was nothing else productive to do he came to realize. Ever since his writing license as a muse had been revoked, his days had grown much longer and become much less peaceful. After he'd stood before the Hippocrene Directorate and stared into the beautiful but mercurial faces of the Grecian Muses themselves and watched them put the gavel down, he'd been banned from acting as any sort of inspiration. In days past he would hop from mortal to mortal, pouring inspiration into them and watching the words come to life through them, but in frustration he'd shown himself to one who had refused to undo his terrible revisions. Hitting the little damn Epicurean had felt good and made him change the title to _The Portrait of Dorian Gray_ like he'd wanted, but earned him his indefinite banishment from the literary realm.

So that was how he'd landed here, hired out to a white Angel of Death as Bookkeeper of Deaths and (greatly degraded) assistant with his faithful doppelganger tagging along behind him, physically identical except for his dual-colored eyes and eccentric choice in clothing. Wandering about Loki's habitation held little entertainment, and Dabriel ended up trudging to her room in absolute, soul-consuming boredom. Maybe there was something to be done.

If there was thing about serving underneath this vassal of Heaven, it was never boring. To say the least.

Dabriel found a very sick mentality behind Loki's choice in décor as he traveled down the smoothed stone floors to where he thought he might find his employer. Loki, despite her Heavenly origins, was the last person he thought reverent enough to live within a house modeled after a Buddhist monastery. He'd seen her icy personality and violent tendencies first hand enough to know her behavior was non-compliant with her divinity, but the stories and rumors left boiling in her wake were worse than that.

As he started up a series of cracked stone stairs, the smell of incense burning brought his attention to the series of burners and candles set on the far sides, spilling over every step. The sight of the tiny flickering flames was soothing, but did not prevent his thoughts to straying to the many tales of Loki's exploits that had kept him awake many a night, carefully eyeing the door to his room and wondering how quickly she might be able to attack.

Some told stories of her mercilessly taking mortals from underneath the nose of authority simply to sate her thirst to exercise her powers. Of smiting her colleagues, of killing her would-be successor in order to retain her station, of tormenting those whose deaths were to be her responsibility. Those who had trained with her refrained from any involvement with the rumor mill when asked, only adopted a grim, white expression and gave warning to avoid her if at all possible. Legend said she was the soul of a murdered woman parading as an Angel with the aid of the Light-Bearer himself, said her eyes were made of ice, said she sought out the pain of deaths to sustain her own emptied and ravenous soul.

But Dabriel knew most of them were just fearful fictions. The danger was in the small kernel of truths he knew some must contain, for he knew he had not seen her full wrath. There was something definitely not Angelic behind that cold look, just waiting for the moment to show its teeth.

And here he was, seeking her out.

Orrin kept close to his back, sensing his original's nervous emotions on edge again, and continually scanned the walls for signs of danger through his peach-colored goggles. Dabriel was pretty sure that in this case, Loki's sword would be much mightier than his pen, should she take offense to him tromping up into her more private quarters. He could only hope she might be in a good mood. Writers didn't train for battle.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and saw that the door was slid slightly open, leading into her unofficial office. Orrin squinted momentarily, peering through his ensorcelled goggles, and nodded to his original. She was in there.

"Loki?"

No answer. Dabriel did his best to squash the unbecoming expression of fear on his face before he stepped forward and pushed the delicate paper door aside.

What had once been a moderately sized room with dusty books on Death and the Afterlife the last time he'd laid eyes upon it had lost every hint of furniture and additions and had grown into a large, open training room. The walls were decorated in scrolls scribbled out in languages Dabriel couldn't read and punctuated by ancient and deadly looking weapons. They hardly appeared to be standard issue equipment, judging by the dark and ragged stains covering the blades of a few and the living eyes plastered to them with an equally unpleasant-looking substance, turning and looking at him. In the center of the room, barefooted on the _tatami_ mats and wearing a strange black dress he'd never seen before, stood Dabriel's boss.

Her long blonde hair was tied taut against her head, pulled back into a bun, pulling her face into a terrible, focused concentration. At her side she held a _naginata_, a pole armed with a long, curved blade at the end. Her entire body cocked it behind her, ready to be brought swinging through her enemy.

And across from her stood the Thirteenth Shinigami. Black wings arched like a hissing cat's back, edges boiling with Darkness, face lowered to her like an animal about to charge, his face curled back into a horrific manic grin of bloodlust. With the whites of his eyes during black and his arms twisting and clawing the air as if in the throws of horrendous convulsions, he was a completely wicked sight—not at all similar to that which Dabriel'd seen consorting with his mortal husband.

He jumped in shock and nearly let out a noise of alarm. He was stopped from doing so by Orrin's hand on his shoulder, who silently pointed in the direction of the fallen Angel of Death.

Though fierce in appearance and menacing in actions, the Shinigami was transparent from the feet downward, disappearing completely where his toes would have gripped the stone. He made terrible noises, demonic noises, trying to egg on his opponent. His tail had elongated and writhed behind him in anticipation. Loki had not unfolded her wings to match his, a fierce and bright white to counterbalance the deep and sinister black, but remained standing, weapon ready and breathing deeply but sharply.

Dabriel hesitated to call out, though he was rather sure his presence was already known. Very little got past his employer. Orrin remained silent as well, taking his cue from his original.

Dressed in a simple black dress which ended at the middle of her calves, the hem torn in places and the sleeves short and worn, Loki stood absolutely stone still except for the intent flare of her nose as she breathed harshly, eyes fixated on the replica Shinigami she faced. Her body was taut like cord, arching the pole behind her and holding it as still as death. Then, without warning, she was streaking across the room, the room resonating with the noise of the faux Shinigami screeching out in pain. His body crumpled and fell to the floor in four different directions. Even the small amount Darkness imbued to give him life shrieked and screamed in outrage, rising from the evaporating body in thick, black spores which imploded suddenly with a gasp and thunder crack.

She stood, carried by her momentum to the other side of the room, panting against the stone with one hand pressed against the wall and head bowed.

It was only now that Dabriel dared speak up. "Loki?" he asked, not knowing if he had spoken loud enough to carry across the expansive room.

But she turned and locked on him like a whip, glaring at him as he'd never seen before. Her eyes were wide in a genuine look of surprise, but they soon turned to hissing ice blue, angry and agitated. Apparently, entering without knocking was a rather grave offense in her book. She turned her body, still taut from violent intents, and clutched her weapon loosely at her side, not so subtly implying she just might turn it against him if she judged him offensive enough.

"I-I'm sorry. I should have knocked or something," he amended quickly. "I was just wondering if you needed anything done, I didn't mean to—"

"Get out."

Dabriel flinched and hesitated, although he did turn a frightened shade of pale. "Excuse me?"

With more raw emotion he'd ever heard from her throat, she hissed at him, pushing the words through her gritted jaw, "Get out before I tear you apart, you damned thing."

"Alright," Dabriel gulped, already feeling Orrin tugging him away. "Sorry, sorry!" And they both turned and quickly took their leave.

No, never boring.


	38. Seekers of Truth

Chapter 38

"Seekers of Truth"

The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami insisted he wouldn't need a library card, though Heero was adamant against taking anything without permission. Not even the theft of a crummy, badly bound, or badly written book was acceptable. When he had tried to sniff out his own library card from the drawers of his desk, Shini had sealed them by pulling the shadows inside as taut as piano wire, rendering them impossible to open. Heero followed his stubborn husband through the doors of the oldest library in Tokyo with a slight frown on his face, still slightly upset. He did not know it was an expression he would be wearing for quite a time longer.

"What are we looking for, anyway?" he asked with a churlish tone, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"A certain section," Shini answered. He seemed not to notice the grumpy gesture and continued striding through the room, looking intently about. "No one will miss a book from this section, I'm sure. I don't think they could even read it if they did." He stopped at a table where a young middle school girl was reading and snatched the manga book from her hands. As she gave a little shriek of surprise, Shini stuck the pages to his nose and sniffed them.

Heero yanked him to the side and snatched the book from his hand. "Shin!"

The Shinigami crinkled his nose at being scolded, twisted away, his captured arm fading slightly out of existence for a moment, and continued on, still sniffing the air like a bloodhound. Heero quickly apologized to the young girl and tossed the book to her—which she dropped, having not yet recovered from the shock. Watching her for a moment to make sure there'd been no real damage done, the mortal dashed after his husband, catching sight of him rounding a corner towards the nonfiction section.

"Shini!" he called after, trying to keep his voice low. One, it was a library, and there _were_ students trying to read, and secondly, he didn't want to go around shouting his husband's name. "Shinigami, what are you doing?" Catching him by his arm and spinning him about, he put on his best serious face to begin to scold him for being so rude to an innocent girl—only to have Shini blink out of his grip and appear, in mid-stride on the other end of the row.

"Come on, Shin!" he growled. "Stop doing that!"

The Angel of Death grinned. "You're just jealous you're stuck to the ground, _Teishu_," he drawled and turned around the corner. When Heero had caught up with him, he stood stock still, staring at the carpeting as if it were about to leap up and snap at him. Even his braid of hair, which had begun the supernatural tendency to twitch and float at energetic times, lay still between his shoulder blades. He walked up beside him, choosing not to question the stillness, and saw that the carpet was about to do just that—jump up off the floor.

"What the hell?"

Shini glanced up at him and smiled slightly while he stared at the carpet, twisting and turning as if something alive were trapped beneath it. No one else seemed to see it, though. They read their manga and poorly plotted romance books without the slightest notice to the whirling hole growing between the aisles.

"Didn't I tell you we wouldn't need a card? I found it," the God of Death said, folding his arms happily. "_This_ is the oldest library in Tokyo." He watched Heero's shocked profile for a moment, then broke his stare by snatching up his hand. He gave it a reassuring squeeze before indicating towards the shifting whirlpool of carpet, which had parted the floor to reveal a dark hole, lighted slightly by the glow of distant candles. "Shall we?"

Over the last few weeks of his previously average life, Heero had seen quite a few abnormal and unimaginable things, all with proof of the afterlife as a new spouse, but he could still not squish his mortal awe after all that. A cautious look guarded his dark blue gaze as he looked to the Shinigami, who smirked confidently. He swallowed the small lump of wonder and asked, "So, what book exactly are we looking for? And how is it going to help us get your brother out of the house?"

Shini turned and looked at the hole again. The carpet had slowed to a small, rolling wave, forming into a small stairway done into the glowing darkness.

"Well," he said, tilting his head, "I'm not quite sure yet. But there should be information about how to become more powerful." He flexed his free hand and thin black wisps formed around it, silvery gray stars sparking from his fingertips. "There's a lot of things I would have learned in Hell, so I'll just have to find another way to develop my powers—without asking my mother," he added pointedly. "There must be a book that can help me."

"Whatever we can do to avoid your mother," Heero answered, grabbing his hand even tighter, "I'm all for. One hundred percent."

"Are you two quite done? Ready to come in, or shall the door be open all day?" Both turned at the interruption of a small, squeezed voice from the darkness opened up below them and saw a set of eyes glow up at them. Seemingly afraid to emerge into the light, the entity watched them intently, and spoke up again when they were cautiously silent. "You came for the old tomes, did you not?" The rather wide-set yellow eyes arched one brow at them.

Heero, seemingly affected more by his wonder than usual, only worked his jaw to find his voice in vain. Shini cleared his throat a little and answered. "Yes, we did," though it did not sound as confident as he'd hoped.

The creature seemed to snicker a little. "Then you may come _in_, Seekers of Truth," the dry, low voice beckoned them, the yellow eyes blending back into the darkness in the middle of the library.

The two newly dubbed Truth Seekers looked to each other in a moment of silent consult, found no reason for particular alarm or danger, and walked up to the hole, where the carpet undulated around the rim like a pacing guard dog. The Shinigami went first and tested out the strength of the steps cautiously. Not surprisingly, the Darkness felt him coming and reached out hungrily toward him, seeking a new and more powerful vessel. Shini could only let it sift in and out his skin without control, and when he reached out for it with his own Darkness as he walked, it would giggle and dodge away, resisting orders of any kind.

At the bottom of the stairs Heero and Shini stood firmly shoulder-to-shoulder, considering the black expanse in front of them. When they blinked, the candlelight light flickered back into life and illuminated the owner of the yellow eyes that had beckoned them down into the dark tunnel in which they currently stood.

The Shinigami tilted his head. "Tortoise?" he drawled, wrapping his head around such a word with some difficulty. He could remember seeing a picture of one in a picture book he'd read in Limbo, and that was what stood before them, hard and stout, wrinkled neck arched up towards them with squinting yellow eyes.

Shini giggled again when he noticed the pair of bifocals on the tip of its reptilian nose, which was quelled by a mild elbow in the side from Heero, trying to signal him it was probably not the best idea to laugh at their host. At this, the Shinigami made a small, annoyed face, and the tortoise gave a dusty, hearty laugh. "Come," he bid, "I can see you are not the patient type. The library is at the end of the corridor."

"No, no, he isn't," Shini grinned.

"Hey! He was talking about you!" Heero answered.

Before he could be caught for the comment, the Angel of Death hopped away from Heero and began following the four-legged librarian, who was surprisingly quick, leaving both walking briskly just to keep his shell in sight. As they passed the candles protruding from the stone and dirt walls, stepping over and ducking plumbing lines at times, they could see the colors of his shell light up—green and brown and purple with golden flecks that caught the light and shined. And another thing—Shini could have sworn he could see another curious set of yellow eyes watching from the back of his shell where a wrinkly tail should have been, but they were gone with a second look. And though he wasn't really frightened, he reached out for Heero's hand.

The corridor seemed to slant slightly downwards as they continued. The tortoise, which still had not seemed to tire, hopped over a water pipe and scurried along. The candles became brighter and more frequent as they went along, growing out of the walls like blazing barnacles. The light from them seemed to reach out to try and touch Heero, and curled away from Shini with a sharp motion, as if he had bitten it. They looked to each other as they walked, but had no time to open their mouths, for they ran into the tortoise. He'd stopped at a large wooden door.

With a sound like bones clattering a bag, he turned his leathery neck clear around to look at them. "Would you be so kind as to open the door? I have to shut it behind me every time someone knocks, but I need the visitor to open for me on the journey back. Makes ding-dong-ditchers especially obnoxious, actually." He even lifted the top of his beak in a strange pantomime of a smile.

Heero untangled his hand to push forward and step cautiously around the round tortoise. His wrinkled neck swiveled to follow him, he noticed with a slight, unpleasant sensation, listening to what sounded like loose bones rattle in his body as he did so. He forced a half smile and reached towards the door latch, a round ring just out of the reptile's reach. The surface was covered with a thick dust and Heero slipped at the first attempt, then dug his heels in and yanked it free.

"Thank you, Mortal," the creature bid, bustling past him as quickly as possible, darting through the doorway as soon as Heero had made a little leeway. An odd yellow-brown light poured out into the corridor, and the candles gave little happy shrieks and the flames grew tall and swayed.

Still standing in the corridor, Shini turned to see that all the candles in sight were giving the same reaction. When he came to stand beside Heero, he noticed that he hadn't made a motion to step through the doorway either, and looked at him with a worried color in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" A hand on the front of his shirt only added to his concerned appearance.

Heero pointed to the air between them, and, as soon as the Angel of Death realized just to what he was indicating, he let out a small gasp and startled backwards. The sudden movement kicked up a wisp of dust into the air, which had suddenly divided itself in to light and dark. Rather strictly, too, Shini would say, as he felt his hair begin to lift around him in the heat of Darkness boiling up from the earth. With his long braid twitching curiously in the air and eartails twisting in the warm, shadowy heat, he almost seemed to lift off his feet—but he was much too busy staring at the opposite side of the fractured corridor, where Heero stood, mired in the conflicting element.

Only a foot away, the dark, murky shadow turned to sharp, clean light, billowing cool and free around him. Heero felt as if someone had suddenly installed an air conditioner in his body and every pore in his skin was an opened window, letting the cold air out into summer's heat. He didn't squint, though, despite it growing suddenly brighter than the afternoon sun, and felt his hair lift weightless around him. True, the Shinigami was made of Darkness, so it was not so surprising to see it condense around him.

But why was _he_ suddenly shining like a lighthouse beacon? As he lifted his hands, noticing they were becoming strangely translucent at the tips of his fingers, they both flinched and turned at the sound of the tortoise's raspy laughter.

"Excuse me, I misspoke. You are not just Mortal," he said, still chuckling while his wrinkled neck shook. "You must be something other than just that. Perhaps your mother was an elf? Or was your father a _youkai_? Or maybe a combination of the two?"

"What are you talking about?" Heero demanded immediately. He was feeling strangely off-put by this unknown situation and the rattling sound that came every time the reptile moved. "They were nothing like that! They were normal!"

"Ah, but you can see _you're_ not, right?"

"Heero—" Shini had reached a concerned hand out towards him, but as soon as he touched the crossing point of light and dark, he felt an awful buzzing jolt go through him. He gave a shrill yip and stuck it back in his mouth, black and violet sparks flying from where they'd connected.

The tortoise craned his neck towards them, beckoning them to step inside. "Don't worry about that. It's not a permanent thing," he said.

"Well, what is it, then? I'd like to know why I'm glowing like a goddamn Christmas tree!" Heero snapped at him, growing less and less patient the more he felt like a half-floating, air-conditioned house.

"The library must investigate visitors before letting them step inside, that's all. It has analyzed you both and this is how it has chosen to summarize you. The Shinigami is Dark, of course, so that is how he manifests. But you, I would have thought you just a mortal man. But it seems you are not. Otherwise this entire tunnel would be completely dark," the tortoise said. "Don't worry. It will wear off as soon as you step inside. But isn't it nice to know a little something else about yourself, One-Like-A Mortal?"

Heero had nothing to answer to that, only a clenched jaw and his quick step following the reptile through the door to express his irritation, the Shinigami hot at his heels with concern (which manifested itself through the shadows as hovering, frowning ghost faces).

* * *

Oh, man, has it ever been a long time. For those of you who believed I abandoned this story... nope. Can't. Just keeps banging on the insides of my head until it's written, though life and time and other annoyingly real things often put themselves in the way of doing just that. Hopefully, it's not too late. It feels like a lot of talent is leaving the Gundam Wing fandom (though, it has been what, over a decade?), but I don't plan to go anywhere. So, here's to a new chapter hopefully as soon as possible! Thanks for reading and all the wonderful reviews encouraging me to continue!


	39. Empty Bones

Chapter 39

"Empty Bones"

Dabriel couldn't be woken by the strangled, howling sounds that began echoing through the halls late into the night because he hadn't had the courage to fall asleep in the first place. Since he'd seen that raw emotion pulsing through an otherwise cold shell of a being, seen rage pull all the composure from her eyes and reveal something he couldn't help but suspect was not purely angelic. Orrin, however, with only the mild intellect of a doppelganger, remained quite oblivious to any of this mental turmoil and snoozed on. Every once in a while, his tail would twitch in his sleep and Dabriel would snort it out of his face, jolting as if Loki herself had come and smacked him in the face.

They lay together in a warm, purring pile on a low futon, surrounded by fully lit candles in a glowing, protective fence. He'd taken the shape of a lioness—just in case his boss should have another violent fit and find him fit for the harvest. He might just have a shot at getting away from her in this form.

The door was blocked with stone and marble statues of the Buddha, reclining and sitting silently, his benevolent face smiling down on them. The windows were barred with old staffs and pikes, and the floor around the bed littered with hundreds of tiny, white-gold bells to alert him to the tiniest intrusion. All in all, he and his shadow twin lay in a small, glaringly bright prison cell. Though, he noted, it was the rest of the world he was trying to keep _out_.

It was late into his sleepless night when the first sounds began bouncing through the halls. They started, faint and soft, but slowly grew into a sound like a steady wind, rolling and moaning and snapping and muttering. Dabriel knew it only had once source, and he felt his heart sink somewhere down into his feet in dread.

It was within forty minutes that Dabriel lost his nerve. The walls hummed and thrummed with the collage of sounds that were coming from the other side of the corridors. The words themselves didn't seem to die either, but bounce around the room like disembodied voice spirits, bent on pinballing about the room until they broke his mind with fear.

His ears flickered constantly as the sound grew in strength, his leonine face filling with a human emotion of terror. He pulled back his whiskers with a grimace. "Shit. I can't go on like this," he grumbled, and looked down to his twin who lounged beside him. His large warm paws rested on his back, his head snuggled between Dabriel's front paws.

He hated to wake him and drag him into such trouble, but he just _couldn't_ go alone. He still wanted to live to see the morning.

He put a large white paw over Orrin's nose and nudged him. "Hey, come on, wake up." When pumpkin and brown eyes turned up to look at him, he did not feel the fear lessen. If anything, it seemed to feed off the undisturbed expression from his doppelganger. "Let's go find out what that noise is."

The shadow twin tilted his head, looking genuinely surprised to hear that.

"Don't look at me like that," Dabriel muttered as he stood up. "I'm not _that _much of a coward, okay? I just like the feel of my own skin, all right? I don't really want to lose it." He gritted his carnivore teeth as he forced himself out of the safety of the candle fence and through the murmuring air towards the door. "Now, come on."

The two white lions slunk towards the door, one with considerable more skip in his step than the other. Behind them, Dabriel made sure to keep the candles burning in case retreat really was a necessity. It was when the large stone door swung heavily shut behind them and he was locked out with the howling voice that reality began to nibble away at him.

"Hey, don't get behind me, Orr," he reminded his doppelganger when he lazily yawned and lost pace.

He seemed to absorb none of the urgency in his original's voice, only padded onward at this command, oblivious to the eerie voice that drew them further down the corridors. As they walked, Dabriel pawed the peach-colored goggles on his forehead down over his eyes, and immediately saw the world in bright green and blue colored information. Tiny yellow bars followed the echoing voice, and at times translated the muttering and screeching noises.

And it was now, reading the snippets that could be pulled from the disembodied nonsense, that Dabriel wanted to quit. Absolutely and unequivocally so. But he would have to face her to tell her that, and it was the prospect of seeing her he just couldn't stand.

'_never again… doesn't this have to stop? …no one pays attention… only it…'_

'_wring it out… black it out… yeah, bugs beneath the heel… or is that us?'_

'_i'll get him… he'll die so damn hard death will never pull him back out… get him… then get them all…'_

'_karov…'_

Dabriel barely registered that they had in fact arrived at Loki's door. He could only raptly watch the translator work furiously, translating three lines of dialogue simultaneously, each in some variant tone of fury, rage, and neurosis. Now suddenly curious, Orrin sat beside him and silently listened to the voices shake the stone walls and frighten the candles, casting sinister light and shadow across the stone idols.

Everyone had warned him, white faces imprisoned by an expression of terror, that she was bad news. They had told him to avoid her at all costs, but he'd been hardly in the mood to listen. He'd just been revoked, and desperation had pushed him toward employment in the hopes it might redeem him in the High Council's eyes, no matter who the employer. Just something, anything to help rebuild his reputation so that he could have his old life back. They'd told him she had eyes of ice, told him she existed off the will of the Light Bearer, told him she would torment and eventually pull the last vestige of life from him with the tips of her fingernails to feed her empty bones. And he'd laughed it off as exaggeration.

After all, writers knew a thing or two about exaggeration. But it'd seemed he'd exaggerated all her good qualities upon meeting her.

She was fucking insane.

'_never again…'_

'_never again…'_

'_karov…'_

'… _never…'_

Voices as dark and varied as the colors of storm clouds swirled in the air above the two white lions, manifesting themselves as little black and green and bone-white arrows that curled and flitted in the air above them. Only Orrin turned his feline face up to the shadowy ceiling to watch them, while his original watched the translations intently. '_never… never… never…_' The word flickered incessantly, without death, until the sounds and voices, all seemingly of different, tortured voices, raise to shouts and snarls and deep-throated screams together, arrows melding, until they popped with a crack of thunder and splitting white light.

Dabriel threw his body to the floor instinctually, with Orrin bracing himself over his original. When the white light disappeared, taking every sound and hovering arrow with it, the silence gave way to the pop of the door sliding open. An unassuming sound, but like bullets flying through the air to Dabriel.

He could feel his heart exit his body, and leave his soul open to attack. It made something scream inside him in terror, feeling something _distinctly_ not angelic draw nearer. He watched Loki's white fingers curl around the door and push it open with no ability to turn and run, since he'd gone numb with fear.

Loki's one frosty blue eye emerged from the dark, staring at him from behind her hand. The dark of her room obscured her mouth and lips, her disheveled blonde hair slick with sweat hiding the telling arch of her brows. Emotionless, she watched him and waited for an answer. When he could only gape at her, she spoke.

"What." There wasn't even enough emotion in her voice to qualify a question. It was the empty and impatient look in her blue iris, her pupils contracted to pencil points beneath heavy lids, that warned him he was not on steady ground, despite the fact she would not leave the darkness of her room.

"Are… are you…"

She took the liberty to finish his question and give him his answer. "Just fine," her voice answered, her mind already somewhere else distant and sheltered from light, as she blinked lazily, then turned and shut the door.

Dabriel remained where he was for a few moments, stock-still. Then, in a hushed voice, he declared to the closed door, "I quit."

* * *

The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami, in his thousand plus years of existence, had come to master many different human tongues, but learned to read in only a few. And, not surprisingly, most of the ancient books were not written in English. A good number of them were in Latin, though, which he still had a firm grasp upon through the many years in his memory. French troubled him, but French mystics and spirits preferred mostly to pass information by mouth anyway. He'd only found a few books in French, mostly pertaining to the proper code of honor for the ghosts of knights and the countryside herbs best for conjuring and divining. Shini passed those on by—he was not a witch, only a manipulator of night and usher of death.

There was a healthy pile of Japanese tomes, which he could easily read and often pertained more closely to him. But he had not found an answer as to how they could force his brother from their home. Love was a formidable foe for Death, and would not be simply pushed out of the way when he had planted his feet.

Shini crinkled his nose as a dust trail dropped from the dirt ceiling and spread across the parchment he was scanning. "Not that he's very _loving_ in the first place," he muttered to himself. "He takes after mother."

"Shall I help you find something?"

Little yellow eyes were watching him with slight amusement from behind the shine of spectacles, his beak lifting slightly in what must be the pantomime of a smile.

He'd been sitting on a stack of books he'd preened through, but upon seeing the reptilian librarian, promptly popped back into existence standing beside them with a half-sheepish grin on his face. He snapped the book he'd been reading shut and shot a puff of gray dust directly into his face. As he resisted a sputter, he heard the tortoise laugh.

"No, it's alright, my dark Seeker," he said, strolling closer so that the candlelight caught the gold flecks in his shell. "These books are tougher than they look. The pages are fragile, yes, but I assure you I've put more than enough magical protection on them than you can even dent. You could drop it into the bottom of the ocean and it'd float back up, bone dry."

Shini blinked and glanced down at the one he was holding, _Lifestyles of Light and Dark Sprites of the Americas_. "Oh, well," he said, his imagination suddenly piping up. "What if a toothed-tuna tried to eat it up?"

"A shark, you mean?" He chuckled when the God of Death nodded enthusiastically, his ear tails bounding up and down as he did so. "Well, it's a good thing they can regenerate their teeth, then. You need not worry about sitting upon them if you like. If it would aid in your search, then, by all means…"

"Okay!" With his hair whipping around once in the air, he teleported back into his comfortable position, his weight causing dust to shoot from the pressured books once again. "But," he said when he'd settled, "would you help me? I'm not really finding the things I need. And these are a lot of books. And I don't like to read. And Heero's upset."

"That would be my greatest pleasure, Seeker. What is the information you desire?"

"Well, you see… I don't want my brother lurking in our house. He'll probably attack either of us whenever he can. My mother sent him so she could manipulate my life into what she wants it to be, and I can't stand him, but I can't defeat him, either. And I don't want my mother barging in anymore!"

The tortoise tilted his head, the sound of slight disbelief coloring his dusty voice. "Pray tell why not? You are quite the powerful creature yourself, are you not? Which Shinigami are you?"

"The Thirteenth," Shini answered. His voice had grown small and subdued, as if the title were a heavy chain around his neck closing off his throat. "But I'm not grown up. I… I can't do much."

"Now, now. That's no way to speak of yourself."

A little sliver of desperation and sadness had entered his brightly colored gaze, and his half-shrunken wings fluttered from his back in distress. "But I can't! I can't do anything useful!"

"Not yet, perhaps, but doesn't your youth mean you have yet to reach your full potential. When you're ready to become mature, you will be." The wisdom seemed to soften his uneasy expression and slow the anxious twit-twat of his tail hitting the bookshelves around him. "Your full powers will come in their own time."

"But I still can't have my brother and mother barging in all the time," Shini muttered quietly as he absorbed these words. "Is there anything I can do now to keep her out? At all? Should I surround the house in salt, or guard dogs?"

Dusty laughter followed and with the speed of a much quicker creature the tortoise keeper of the books had spun about face, craning his neck over his glinting shell back at the Shinigami with a grin. "No need for that," he chuckled as he lumbered off, head turned completely backwards without the slightest exertion. "I believe I have a book for you that may help you solve that and a few other problems. If you'll just be patient, I'll find it for you. Meanwhile—" He arched a wrinkled brow at the bookshelf behind the Angel of Death. "—your husband may be interested in that certain white book. He seems to be quite occupied with that incident in the Judgment Hall."

The Shinigami puckered his lip. "Hey, how do you know we're married?"

"The red string gives it away, my dark Seeker," he answered, indicating to the bright red link that ran from the loop on his pinky finger into the bookshelves to where Heero had holed himself, moping in his own, withdrawn way.

"Oh," he laughed sheepishly. "Didn't know you could see it."

"Now, why don't you get that book and travel to the other end? I believe he may need it."

Shini tilted his head cutely, like a dog receiving a foreign command, then turned about to see the mentioned 'white book', glittering like polished bone between the leather bound books surrounding it. The wording was written in a strange, unreadable scribble, the letters turning from ocher yellow to pumpkin orange to some unheard beat. As he stared at it, he couldn't help but get a strange sensation from it. As he stared, he could see what appeared to be white lightning bugs darting out from it and whirring off into the library.

"Heero? But what would he need from that book—?"

But when he turned around again, the keeper was nowhere to be seen. So, shrugging his shoulders and his half-sized wings to himself, he crawled off the stack of books and climbed onto the shelf to reach for the white book that smelt like sunlight and felt warm like sleeping skin. And when he touched it, it spit a little light from the tips of his fingerprints, reacting to the Darkness in his skin. He popped out of existence with a curious expression and reappeared a few feet away from his husband, looking delicately up at him with book in hand.

Reclining on a red velvet chair with feet swung up over the arms and back facing him, he sat, silently staring at the same page of a Japanese Gods Tribute Guide. Shini couldn't help but let a soft smile cross his face. Even the soft angles of his dark hair seemed to be moping and droopy, hanging about his ears like his body crumped into the old, royal seat. It was an irresistible spot, so he slunk behind him, assured he hadn't been heard by his lack of motion, and kissed the skin just behind his neck, breathing down the thin striped shirt he'd worn. He grinned and his tail curled in a similar expression as his mortal husband jolted and issued a frightened squeak of a sound.

He jumped and stared over his shoulder, startled so that his blue eyes turned near white. For a moment, Shini could see the young mortal he'd first encountered in the dark corridors of a haunted house, with plaster and dust falling down around his face and cold dark winds fluttering his hair around his face. But in a moment, that memory faded and he was _his_ Heero again, the one who started the nights only with his body comfortably near but in the mornings was wrapped indomitably around his waist.

A scowl quickly formed on his face. He didn't like to be surprised. He didn't like anyone to know that he could be vulnerable, even if it was due to a lack of awareness. Pulling his brow slightly together, he said, "Shin," and nothing more.

Shini's unhelpable smile of sympathy grew another inch and brightened. "Oh, 'ro, you really are upset, _ne_?" He lifted up from his crouching position to chase his mouth with his lips. Heero glanced a little away, resisting a flush.

"I'm fine."

"And you've learned to lie," Shin teased, strolling over to the chair. Heero watched him move with a secret swell in his chest that had grown in last few days and curled up his legs to make room when he tapped his toes to squeeze into the seat with him. His warm smile remained as he replaced Heero's legs over his lap and nudged his shoe playfully. "You know, it is okay to be upset. Love you all the same. Maybe even more," he grinned.

As Heero quietly considered this, still clutching at the same, unread page, Shini went about peeling off his shoes and dropping them on the dusty floor to rub his feet, as casually and comfortably as could be. "I love you, no matter what you are… well, if you were my mother, then I wouldn't. No. That is strange. Not my mother. Otherwise, I do." He smiled to himself, still tickling at Heero's toes. "Even if you emit strange light in underground tunnels."

"Shin, I—"

"Hey. It's a useful skill, is it not? Well, I _can_ see in dark, but you make an awfully cute lantern, _Teishu_!"

Heero's brow loosened a little, his frown dropping off into only a slight quirk of the mouth. "Shini, I'm not really upset… just kind of confused, that's all. I didn't understand what happened back there, and I overreacted. It's just…"

"Strange?"

He looked down at the book, which had fallen shut in his lap. "Yeah, I guess. I've never even thought that I was anything… like you."

The Shinigami 'tsk'ed and waved a hand at that. "Heero, you were never average. It's not surprising, really, that you maybe more than mortal. You've always felt different from them, at least to me."

Heero still did not seem completely comfortable with this jarring truth as his averted eyes told Shini. "Yeah, well," he murmured to himself, "you smell like cinnamon all the time for some strange reason, but you never worry about that."

"Hm?" Shini looked up from touching him (on his distinctly not-ticklish feet; what a shame he thought to himself).

"Nothing," Heero said, finally looking up to meet his gaze.

Shini gazed back for a few moments in warm silence, taking his big and index toe in a separate hand and twiddling them back and forth with a soft grin. Then he smirked and reached up to pull the book out of his hands so that he could turn his palms up. He cupped his hands beneath the mortals and felt their skin start to spark as he called Darkness down into the tips of his fingers.

"Do you remember the trick I taught you?"

"Yeah," Heero breathed back, never breaking eye contact. "Imagine your favorite food, sitting in the palm of your hands."

An impish smirk crossed the Angel of Death's face as his tilted his chin, staring straight across into his husband and seeing Light stirring like Darkness stirred within him and travel to his finger tips. "What is it, _Teishu?_" he purred.

"Ice cream," he answered in an absent gaze, absorbed in thought. "And don't call me that…"

With a slight popping sound, a little wavering ball of shadow ringed in white light appeared and electricity began to thrum through their connected hands.

"See? Could you do this if you were only flesh and blood, _Teishu_?"

Heero stared at him silently, considering.

The moment was interrupted with the approach of reptilian feet as the Keeper stopped beside the large red chair where the two were tangled and connected, ringed in their respective element. He smiled at them politely and apologized for barging in, but indicated to the large black tome on his back. "I believe I have found something that will help you solve your relative problems, my Seekers of Truth."


	40. No Cursing in a House of Worship

Chapter 40

"No Cursing in a House of Worship"

_Basics to Constructing and Blessing Shinto Shrines_ was the title of the book that the tortoise had presented to them, a rather conspicuous item when it was flipped open on a petite coffee shop table and reeked of dust and sakura blossoms, both of which frequently fell out of the pages. The Thirteenth Son of Shinigami simply blew them away with a smirk and a laugh, often landing them in Heero's untouched cup of coffee.

Along with that strange smell of freshly ground cinnamon that always hung about him, he was a virtual plug-in candle as he flipped through the pages. The people around them cautiously sniffed and turned to look at them, and Heero fended them off with a glare, something they did not expect. They did not look again, at least, he though to himself, turning to see that another flower had landed in his drink.

He scowled and flicked the coffee of his fingers after plucking it out. It was long cold. "Shin, please stop doing that," he muttered. "I might get the stomach to drink this some time."

"Yeah, right. As soon as you eat your muffin, you'll drink your coffee."

"I didn't order any muffin."

"Shin's point," he answered, still staring down at the page. "Why did you get some if you are just letting it gain age?"

Heero's smirk was minimal, shrunken by the constant worries that ran beneath his mental surface. One being the thought of some being lurking his home, waiting for their return. One was Shin's mother storming in on them for another inexplicable reason, smoke billowing from her nose and tongue lashing. One was a white book in his pack, sitting beside his feet, unread.

All that fueled his quickly souring mood. "You know, sometimes I think it might be better if you'd never improved your English. Did your mother teach it to you?"

"No, there was a sarcasm section in the book." He peered up to flash him a raspberry and grinned in victory, much as a toddler does after dropping something precious and smashing it on the floor. He certainly retained his youth for being so old, Heero thought, but silently put his mouth on the coffee cup to keep from bickering. Shini's smile persevered, even as he continued to read.

His eyes ran silently across the lines of Japanese for a few more minutes before he cried out in a happy bark of a sound.

"Oh, I found it! We can use this! _'Expelling Unwanted Demigods from the Shrine'_! Couldn't we? I mean, if we just made the house into a shrine, then we could… pop him out! Kablam!" With an excited squeal that brought far too much attention to their table, he slammed the book down on the table. By then, all the attention that could be had was on them. Even the girl behind the counter ceased wiping her hands on her apron to stare at them for a moment as a dust cloud coughed out from the ancient book.

Heero reached across the table to grab one of the Shinigami's hands, slinging his pack over his shoulder. "Shin? I think maybe we should go somewhere quieter to discuss this."

He frowned, puckering his face in cute confusion the way that he often did when Heero used an English word he didn't know, or when the toaster at home would not toast little slices of Darkness like it would slices of bread. "_Oi_, _doshite?" _One weak tug was given before he gave in and stood from his chair. Heero knew he would reach to lift the book with a puff of shadow and light separating because he'd had trouble skipping to the coffee shop with such a heavy object.

He dropped his husband's hand and quickly snatched up the book.

"Come on, _Tei_—Mmff!"

And he dropped it again to clap his hand over his mouth. To appease the eyes that were still watching them, and with mounting curiosity, he laughed nervously and slung his other arm around his waist, feeling his body tense up in surprise and also rise up under his touch. A bit of stirring anger rose up in his husband's unnatural violet eyes in the form of the black of his iris and pupil dancing around together in a clashing of shadow, but he smirked half-heartedly through his restraints when he saw the blush of embarrassment on Heero's face in return. Instead, he ran the tip of his tongue across his palm and got his freedom in the form of Heero jumping backwards, garnering even more attention around them.

He frowned and shook out his hands as if he'd touched a hot coal. But it was cute, the way he had to fight some lewd little smile behind his expression. "Shin," he got out before his suddenly winded voice could embarrass him. "I asked you _not _to call me that in public… and we really shouldn't be talking about this here."

The people who were watching them seemed to catch some of the message, or simply lose interest. They turned back to their coffee, their conversation mates, and their own business eventually, and Shini smiled gently at him. "Sorry, Heero. I just wish we could be back home, you know."

"Yeah. So do I. But with your brother there, I don't want to risk either of our safety. If he's related your mother, there's just no telling what he might do. Or _why_ he'd do it." He gently grabbed him by the arm and, after ignoring the sparks of white he could see interact with black where they touched, began guiding him to the door. "Let's just take this conversation somewhere else, shall we? The sooner we do, the sooner we can go back home."

"But wait, don't you want your chilled coffee?"

"No thanks," Heero said, tugging him gently to his side, which he happily obliged. With a light skip to his step, he hopped over to his mortal's side, quickly curling around his waist like a misplaced, but very warming, scarf. "How about the park? We should have a little more privacy there, at least…"

It was then that he was tugged in return with enough force to spin him around, placing him face to face with a very firm expression. Shini held him in place by his elbows and the color of his stare. "You forgot your book," he reminded him. And it was the smug arch of his brow and quirk of his mouth that told him he knew it hadn't been an accident. "After all that trouble the tortoise went through to find it for you, to help you, it would be _terrible_ to in mistake leave it somewhere."

Heero let out the nervous breath he'd held as quietly as he could. "Right," he answered with a brisk little nod. Stepping quickly back into the fray of unwanted attention for a moment, he picked up the white book that smelt like sunshine on grass from where it had leaned against the chair leg. He could not hide the displeasure in his face for a moment as he turned back around. It was quickly put away into his pack, slung over his shoulder, and his hand back on the Shinigami's elbow once again.

Shin smiled as they walked towards the door and the stings of attention began to tauten and snap and fall away, though Heero's tenseness didn't lessen. "Are you okay?" He asked as the door swung open at his impatient hand and he tugged him towards _Youkai_, parked nearby.

"Fine." Heero readjusted the backpack on his shoulder and was already throwing his motorcycle into life before he'd completely settled upon it.

An eyebrow arched at him and Shini muttered, "Oh, really. It doesn't look that way to me."

Heero's mouth curled into an unhappy frown, but he kept it directed at the rearview mirrors, supposedly scanning traffic for an opportunity to merge. But it wouldn't fool Shini—he was only looking for a place to hide his true thoughts because they were becoming too personal and too frightening. In fact, he could even see the loops of white that seemed to arch from one part of his head to the other that seemed to give away his troubled thoughts immediately.

"Well, that's how it is."

"Heero—"

"I'm not afraid of the book, if that's what you're going to say," came the immediate response. His husband turned his hawkish-blue stare back over at him, at once beckoning him forward and yet still warning him the topic was unwanted. "The sooner we get going somewhere more private, the sooner we can go back home, you know. We really shouldn't waste time talking about something like that."

"And the sooner we get home, the sooner you'll cheer up, _ne_?"

The only answer to that was the revving of the engine as Heero's foot fell on the kickstand in a precise stomp, his face turned slightly away as he hid a flush of embarrassment and frustration beneath his bangs.

His immortal husband, who kept his distance for a moment to sigh and look pointedly around, only folded his arms and rolled his eyes to the sky. He wished he could only deliver the message that he muttered to the unseen world where his mother was no doubt fretting over the position of the cucumber slices on her eyes or some such thing, stressing out her innocent Nadette to impossible means, smacking some dress sprite around to turn her magazine pages faster.

"Damn, but this is a lot of trouble to go through just so I'll have more sex, _Okasan_."

He glanced back to the growl of _Youkai_, and saw Heero staring at him. And by the blank edge to it, he might have heard his comment. And with a slight, cold drop in his stomach, Shini remembered exactly why he hadn't informed him of his mother's time-stopping visit or exactly why his brother now lurked in the shadows of their home, arrows no doubt drawn and doused in love draught. Or that there was a little red vial of aphrodisiac in his pocket powerful enough to make strangers die for each other.

He chuckled nervously to himself, seeing a giant white loop begin to dodge and twist through Heero's hair in a curious and puzzled twirl, and quickly hopped onto the seat behind him. "Come on, 'ro," he laughed to the back of his ear, "will we sit here and watch the clouds, or find a way to get our house back? Come on, come on!"

Heero considered him for a moment from the awkward angle, even giving the arms he wrapped around his waist a momentary cautionary look. Shini only grinned at the blue eye he received as cutely as could be. After all, who could resist Death when it had such a friendly face?

"_Ikimasho?"_ He forced a cute giggle to shame a schoolgirl and nudged his square hips, which vibrated nicely from the engine's rattle.

Heero still looked at him slightly curiously, then shrugged and said, "Yeah, let's get going. The park sound alright to you?"

"Yep!" With a smile that believed he was in the clear, keeping the secret of the true meaning of all this new upheaval and thus preserving his own progress in their relationship, he hugged him tightly. However, the confused tendril of white that ducked and curled through his hair reached down and poked him in the forehead. In response, four little feathers sprouted and struck it away, quickly melting back into his skin when it'd gone. He puckered his lips, wonder what it had meant, but Heero slammed on the gas and went tearing into the street, jolting the Shinigami out of the thought.

A/N: Sorry about the short chapter, I'm doing my best to get back in the groove. And while I sit here, trying to get my sht together, here's what I got.


	41. How Many Names Fit the Night

Chapter 41

"How Many Names Fit the Night"

It had been years since Loki had walked the cold of the earth in only her bare feet, swelling with emotion that roared to be expressed through the tip of her blade, as a torn young woman—but murderous flights seemed to be somewhat like riding a bike. The knowledge never left you, no longer how long it had been. Tonight she was hunting her lost assistants, her wayward charges who thought they could simply walk out of her grasp through the tunnel of dark woods that linked the earthly to the heavenly.

To think that just by using the most tangled and darkest of the transfer tunnels between the worlds that they could lose her. No body _lost_ Dorothy Catalonia. She would destroy anyone before they simply _escaped_ her. Turning the worn cherry wood of her weapon so that the blade sighed gently when the moonlight caught, she strolled steadily into the arms of the forest, rage on her agenda.

The harmless black boughs bent out of her way as she walked, recognizing her immortal state and her right to passage between worlds. It would have chewed up and spat out any mortal who had dared to touch them. Not that the other tunnels were tamer, by any means. Yes, they were more welcoming to the naïve eye, filled with flowing winds of feathers (feathers that crawled into intruders' lungs and let them choke in the most thorough manner) and even fields of grass (which sucked them under and promptly pushed out a pile of daisies), but they were strict. And they let her pass through, after the angel and his doppelganger companion.

As she walked, the sharpness of her blade dragging on the ground even cut the shadow grass, letting it twirl up into the air and fade. She watched it go with the slightest smirk of frenzied hunger and joy that disappeared as quickly as the shadow. Then, readjusting her grip, lifted the blade and strode forward. She had a lot of work to do, and it would be so much easier if she didn't have to kill her helpers.

* * *

"I'm not sure if I'm alright with this," Heero muttered to himself. It earned him a sharp look from over the book, from where Shini was sitting opposite him. Actually, he muttered nothing to himself, truthfully, anymore. Half of him greatly enjoyed watching the Angel of Death perk up his eyebrows and eyes fill with surprise and energetic colors. The other half had just become too tired of this 'hunt' to think anymore. 

"What do you mean by that, hm? Don't love me enough to make me a shrine?" Shini questioned him sharply, slapping the book shut in the middle of reciting the necessary rituals once again, just to be sure. The dramatic gesture made Heero sigh and roll his neck to lean against his side of the red wood bridge.

"I don't mean that, Shin." He put his chin in his palm and propped his elbow on his knee, blinking heavily over at him. "I just feel so _tired_ and I don't know why. And every time I look at that damn book, it gives me a terrible headache."

Said white book that smelt like sunlight and the summer grass at sunset now rested safely in his pack, which was seated a safe distance away, drawing occasional nervous looks from its intended reader. Heero now turned his stare towards it, resisting the wrinkle of his brow and a pained scowl.

"I don't know about it, but..." He sighed and glanced back up at Shini. "But I suppose there's no use in crying over it. Let's just get rid of your brother first."

The Shinigami puckered his lips in concern. "_Teishu_, are you sure you're alright?"

"For now," he answered, and reached forward to nudge the book towards him. "Just tell me what we need to do, and let's do it." When Shini wouldn't stop arching an eyebrow at him, he added, in an impatient tone, "We'll talk about it _later_, alright?"

Heero received a wary violet eye, his belief in that statement wavering, but patiently, deliberately, Shini turned his stare to the book and the scrolling script that would expel the God of Love from their home, where he was no doubt indulging his inherited indulgent nature and eating all the good immortal food. He readjusted the book on his knees and squinted at the Japanese for a moment, trying to find the spot he'd left off.

"According to the book, when we build the shrine we should be able to purify the house of unwanted spirits and put protection on the house," he said. "If we do it right, it should be strong enough to dispel any unwelcome demigods. _And_ keep them out unless invited in. Cool, _ne_?"

Heero agreed, but frowned slightly. "Won't that protection try to force _you _out of the house?"

"No, silly," Shinigami responded. "Not if you dedicate the shrine to _me_, it won't."

"I'm no priest, Shin. I'm not sure I can perform this ritual at all."

That didn't seem to worry him in the least, as he simply answered, "I know," but continued to read and reread the ritual instructions. Heero listened patiently, though, by the spark of blue in his stare, Shini could tell boredom was quickly setting in and he longed to be somewhere else. As much as he hated to make his husband unhappy or uncomfortable, and as much as he wanted to simply stop reading and slap the book close and go play, this was important to get right. When they had gathered all the supplies in place in the house, they might have only minutes before Cupid sensed them and wreaked whatever havoc he'd been charged with, and who knew who else might be lingering in the house, criticizing and raiding the fridge.

And the last thing Shini wanted to stress Heero out with was another furious tirade from his mother and her excessive blush and eyeshadow. She might reveal to him the reason that there was a winged deity of love and light in their home. The Angel of Death snuck a glance at his husband, the weight of the secret filling him with a pinch of dread, wondering how it would effect their relationship should Heero find out, or—Heaven's forbid—Cupid succeeded and speared him with an arrow dripping with fabricated lust.

It would _not_ happen. He would make sure of that.

Will steeled and his chest welling with determination anew, the Shinigami read intently on, memorizing and memorizing and strategizing, moved forward by the sneering image of his mother and the reassuring pressure of Heero's knees resting against him as they sat on the bridge, the rest of Tokyo unaware to their otherworldly problems.

* * *

She simply strode out of the shadow trees, which parted with an angry snap and hiss, and swung her long blade so that the vicious edge seared along the back of Orrin's neck. She made no soft offers, that was for sure. 

Having cut himself too many times on the thorns that had lashed out at him for fun, issuing rustling little laughs when he tripped, and even when he tangled himself in cocker spaniel form, Dabriel had given up for the night. Without the unlimited access between worlds that employment under a death Angel provided, he was forced to use the old, treacherous paths booby-trapped against any mortal entry. After hours of trudging through laughing, victorious forest and avoiding large, airborne piles of black goo, courtesy of the Black Hoot Owls above, he'd decided to make camp. The passages were small worlds within themselves, and he had picked a location that would hopefully be far enough out of the way. With his wolven paws bloodied and his tongue hanging low out of his mouth, he and Orrin had collapsed near each other, letting their heavy breathing lull them into a shallow sleep.

Even in such a lethal form, a large, white Dire wolf of prehistoric size and ferocity, and Orrin lying just inches from him, he felt unsure. A mouth of razor teeth and jaws to crush stone and bone would not stop Loki. Nor could pleading or even the mercy in her heart, had it actually existed. Beneath her pale and beautiful face, she was an empty, blood-seeking thing, bent on her violent will and nothing else. And he'd agreed to work for her?

He'd been more desperate than he'd thought. But now—he was truly desperate now.

The forest had finally begun to quit laughing and snickering at the two unfortunate travelers. Dabriel kept his head on his paws and let his eyes drift shut. Surely, he was safe here. They were so far into the passage, so far off the trail, and he was so tired. With the reassurance of Orrin's warmth and heaving chest nearby, Dabriel finally found a little peace in the pre-dreaming images that danced on his eyelids, thankfully none of blond women dancing after him.

And that was when the night opened up with a betrayal and a hiss, and the back of Orrin's neck opened to the slash of Loki's blade.

He let out a whimpering scream of terror, and his heavy body went flying over Dabriel and landed with a thud. He lay motionless, only making weak noises.

That left Dabriel wide open to the blade he found coming to rest just fractions from his nose. At the other end of the _naginata_, Loki's blue eyes stared down at him, luminous and predatory in the dark.

When she spoke, Dabriel could not help but let out a startled gasp. "My assistant," she drawled at him with her usual malice, but this time was different. A sick, ravenous joy flooded into her face, curling her face into a genuine but terrifying grin. Her chin lifted as she chuckled and relished her own dark voice and her eyes glowed down at him. This was _not_ Loki.

She seemed to notice his thoughts through the terror on his face, and her devilish grin curled further around her face. Like it was wrapping around the pleasure of his pain like a child wraps around a favorite friend. It almost made Dabriel sick. She snickered at him in the same tone as the forest. "I've missed you, my dear friend. Tell," she mocked him with a pucker of her lips, "what have you been up to?"

Dabriel could not get oxygen to his brain, having blocked his throat with a fearful lump. He worked his mouth uselessly for a few moments. He just gaped up at her and watched the emotions turn and shift on her face, but never a good one.

"I _said_, you rude thing, what have you been up to? Did you really think you'd just up and go? Huh? Is that it?" When he still didn't answer, and Orrin continued to whimper in such an _annoying _way, she slapped her hand on the shaft and spun it about in her grip, slamming Dabriel in the face with the blunt end. He shrieked and collapsed to the ground. She'd opened a gash along his muzzle, just below the eye.

"Tell me!" she shrieked in return. The bladed end again came to point dangerously close. "You worthless fucking thing, tell me!"

He watched the predator in her stare, the only familiar sliver of her he could see, being constantly prodded and encouraged by the fury and wicked pleasure underneath. Her grin returned, and she kicked him in the jaw, sending his squeal of terror and pain up into the night like lightning. He rolled over on his back in a mimic of submission, gasping as he watched the stars above multiply and whirl around him in a fury. She squatted down beside him, her dark dress pooling around her waist as she did so.

Through his ripping pain and the even more choking fear that rose in his throat, he could see the pinkness around her knees and squinted in confusion. _Why_…_ why of all things, do I notice something like that? _he wondered to himself in hopelessness, catching sight of the red nicks the thorns had left on her. The little, runny trails of dried blood from nicking her skin. And, when she pinched his aching mouth in her hand and forced him to look at her, he saw the eager blood of the hunt bright beneath her eyes in a rosy flush.

"Dabriel," she curled around his mouth like a snake's tongue. "I still want an assistant. I don't want a doorstop."

"What?" he rasped, his tongue running wild as he panted and his teeth just inches from her flesh. He could turn and bite her and make a run for it, but the terror held around him and kept him there. Death was not a welcome thing, not to mortals and definitely not to _him_.

"I don't want to kill you," she whispered. Her arm was tensed at her side, the blade of her _naginata_ gleaming a short distance away like an eager bystander, just waiting for the chance to dirty his hands. Through all the sensations running through his veins, he could still taste the bite of the supernatural in the air, and from the blade he smelt the bitter sheen of wyvern blood built into the metal, and hints of other enchantments built on blood. She'd been bewitching it. But to do what, he couldn't tell.

Her eyes flashed bright blue, her face corrupted with so many joyful emotions it nearly glowed. "But I will. Give me three reasons you're still qualified to live, and I'll let you." She grinned and petted his neck. "There, isn't that unnaturally kind of me?"

Dabriel gurgled a lump in the back of his throat as he tried to answer, to reason with unreason. "Loki…"

"Sorry, no. That's not my name, and that's not a quality… you've got _one_ more. Best use it wisely, love," she giggled at him.

"You—you said I had three!" he gasped out, his paws twitching weakly.

_I could so easily push her off me and make a break… but I can't just leave Orrin here, injured so badly. If I leave him here with her, she'll no doubt kill him. For god's sake, she might even _eat _him in this state she's in… this insane state, like she's some mad mortal girl, jealous over another girl's dress and cutting it apart…_

And in that moment, when Loki's face began to lose its impatient patience and she raised her arm, Dabriel was glad for his wandering imagination. She wasn't like a mad mortal. She _was_ a mad mortal. He could smell it now, in this place thick with darkness. Among the trees and the blade and the night, her body was empty of power and warm with blood. She grinned down at him, and it was broken, the illusion she'd held over him.

"I know. But I don't feel like waiting that long."

Dabriel spit blood at her as he spoke in a desperate gasp. "Dorothy."

For a moment, she seemed only to grin at the name, still too enthralled by the sight of his fear to register his words. How many cold-hearted killers _actually_ listened to their victims, anyway? They only waited to hear themselves talk, then put the knife through them in a fit of joy. And then, as the whimpers of his doppelganger began to fade into drowsy moans, he watched that joy take its smile and turn it all into fang. The rage seeped back up and her mouth dropped like a stone into her old, cold scowl.

"You do not have the right to call me by that name." she hissed at him. For a moment, Dabriel thought he might be spared, but she threw the weapon down and grabbed him around the throat so hard she would have punctured it, had he been any thing but a wolf. He let out a scream of pain as blood began to pour out over her knuckles. As he gasped in terror, he could not hold still anymore, like a mouse caught in a cat's stare, and began clawing at her.

Blood flew from her exposed arm and the angry red cuts his paws left, and pain flashed in her face. But instead of loosening her grip in her pain, it only served to tighten her grip, and Dabriel felt his windpipe give dangerously into her, inching shut. He gasped, barked weakly, and felt his heart thundering and the blood pouring off her arm. In the darkness and the pain, he glanced over to see it was not blue blood that poured out, but bright, human red.

She was screaming continually now. All the ice had left it, and Dorothy screeched and cursed. "_That is my name!_ Mine! Mine! _Mine! _You don't deserve to say it, you heartless creature! All of you, heartless to the last drop, you—you—die!"

Dabriel could not breath. The darkness of night was littered with little dancing dots of white and pink and yellow, all burning on the edges of his vision and burning it all away. He gasped, and nothing came. He tried to listen for the sounds that his doppelganger was still alive somewhere near him, but she had filled the air with screeching, half unintelligible and the other half a senseless thunderstorm of words. And for some reason, he could only think to himself, _I quit. That's all I wanted to do. Is that really so much to ask?_

And then, Dabriel knew that they had been right, those doubting mouths that had told him he was a fool to serve under her. That she was not what she seemed at all. And that he might know how to stop her.

Dabriel pushed the thick curtain of pain out of his sight as forcefully as he could and _jumped_ into his original form, drawing his feet up before they had fully transitioned back from paws. Without the extra girth of the wolf neck to viciously claw, Dorothy's hands gripped nothing but air and the force she'd exerted trying to choke him sent her tumbling forward, startled. As her body seemed to hang in the air, shocked and dumb, he kicked her in the stomach and threw her as far as he could over his head.

She collapsed to the ground a few feet away. Dabriel spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground as he lurched upwards onto his feet. Still resisting the heavy sheet of pain that would drop him should he acknowledge it, he snatched up her _naginata_ and turned towards her. She was turning towards him as well. And the fire in her stare told him he would soon regret the motion.

"I said, 'I _quit_,' you bitch!" he snapped at her, and drove the blade through her shoulder, pinning her writhing, furious body to the ground.

And while she screamed blood oaths of his long death, he grabbed Orrin's body in his wolf's mouth and ran for the mortal world.


	42. Kamidana

Chapter 42

"Kamidana"

"That tickles," Shini alerted him, scrunching his nose and flashing a half-smile, unable to spread it completely, as Heero's hand was holding his face still. While the slightly cool tip of the pencil traced along one side of his face, he squinted the eye of the opposite open slightly to peer at the amusing look of concentration on Heero's face. The bead of sweat out of sheer focus was just moments away, and his lips had tightened up over his half-bitten tongue poking out like a manga drawing.

Blue eyes flashed at him, almost frustrated, from beneath that concentrated brow. "That's not helping, Shin," Heero muttered, still almost furiously concentrated on drawing the kanji correctly on the dancing surface that was the edge of his husband's smile. When the Angel of Death instinctively turned to face his voice, drinking up his face with a familiar, curled grin, he clutched his chin and turned it back. He'd only halfway finished the sign for death. "Stop moving, please. I'm almost done."

The pink of Shini's tongue poked out in a raspberry. "It's hard to stay still," he managed out, before Heero pinched his mouth shut.

"Talking's still _moving_," he reminded him, stopping to pick at the dulling edge of his writing utensil. Somehow, the validity of this plan seemed all too faint and flimsy, inscribing symbols for a makeshift religious purging on a Shinigami who had the supernatural training equivalent of demon preschool—and inscribing in black eyeliner, no less. But flimsy plans were more realizable than ones that did not exist.

The mortal sighed and pulled back. He'd never wrangled a overly-eager group of children before, but he'd seen it done before and recognized the gleam in Shini's eyes. "Okay, if you really want to make yourself useful," Heero said, capping the pencil and shoving it in his back pocket, "you can check the bag again to make sure we've got everything and we know what to do. When we get in there, we may have only a few minutes to get started. Right?"

"Right!" Shini yipped happily, with the joy lighting up on his face and twisting the curls of shadow and kanji inscriptions written there.

He snatched up the half-crumpled paper bag of supplies they had purchased that morning in preparation for the blessing of a home shrine, a _kamidana_. Purchased, in the sense they meant fully in their heart to do so, but Heero had left his wallet at home—the new battle zone—and Shinigami had faded energetically in and out of light with objects in hand instead. He hadn't told Heero that he'd frightened the daylights out of some poor stock boy in the process, though. He didn't need to add a trouble to his already tense shoulders.

Heero glanced up and down the street with a low caution not matching the calm, residential area as birds sang to the sun and distant radios lulled. Shini's bare toes danced along the cooled chrome of _Youkai's_ tailpipe, parked nearby, as they sat on the curb, a block away from their home, simply watching it in suspicion.

Shini ruffled excitedly through the bag. In a better mood, Heero would have cracked a joke about a kid at Christmas, or an American in a fast food restaurant, at which Shini would have simply tilted and made a cute sound of confusion. Now, his face and neck and hands inscribed in makeup, and hair tied back, except for the long ear tails fluttering on his chest, he was prepped for immortal battle. And he still grinned cutely.

"Do we have everything we need?" Shini asked.

Heero took one more, cautionary glance, looking for whatever might be the brother of Death, a glint of wings, or grin of a blade, before snorting and half-smiling. "You're the god. Aren't you supposed to be omnipotent?"

"_Teishu_, you're being glib." When Heero responded by blinking in surprise, the Angel of Death smiled back fiercely. "It's my word for the day."

All he received was an arch of the brow for that. "You have a word of the day." He seemed to be reiterating it to the air to see if it felt the same half-amused frustration.

"I gotta make better English," Shini slung back, and felt the warmth of Darkness swirling up in his heart as Heero took on a proud, clean white glow, even beneath the stark sunlight.

"Alright," Heero lapsed, and touched shoulders with Shini as he peered into the bag, his dark bangs sticking to his face in the heat. "Rope?"

"Yep."

"Alright. Food for the shrine?"

The Shinigami stirred the objects around the bag, digging for the groceries they'd lifted with good intentions. "_Sake_… salt… water bottle… and…rice?"

"Good. The vase?"

"Yep."

"The evergreen?"

Shini blinked momentarily, an instant giveaway that they'd forgotten it, but he glanced over each shoulder before fixing Heero with a warm, violet gaze and _popping_ out of sight. Heero simply reacted by blinking once at the empty space and snatching the brown paper bag out of the air to prevent it from crashing to the ground. And, in another blink, the Shinigami reappeared with a slick sound like a lollipop leaving sealed lips. "Thank you, 'Ro," he said brightly, taking back the bag with a kiss.

Clenched in his fingers laid three richly green pine branches, the eternal evergreen used to invoke deities. When placed in the house and properly blessed with—even if said supplies were cheap, rushed versions purchased more on a schedule than by religious standards—the Shinigami would have dominion over the house, able to control its spiritual atmosphere and hopefully drive all unwanted spirits with a simple command.

There would be no more lazy nights and mornings sullied by a looming brother, no more embarrassing and unneeded love lectures, no more threats of love potions and spells. Shini grinned into Heero's mouth at the tempting thought, and excitement drove him to push the bag out of Heero's hand and lick his lips as they kissed, love sparking off him in trails of Darkness.

Unfortunately, Heero remembered the mission at hand and prematurely interrupted them, pulling away. Cinnamon-taste and a narrowly suppressed lurch of lust barked at him to reunite them, under punishment of hormones, but he overrode the thought—at least for the time being—for the sake of the mission. What good was it to kiss, out in the street, in the sight of anyone who happened to walk by? "If we're ready, we should go," he said, and Shini's smile warped again into a devilish smirk.

"I can make it so no one can see us, you know, Heero," he answered.

"I'd prefer to be in my own home again, Shin."

The smile simmered to a gentle smirk. "Fine," he said. "Then let's go get my brother the hell out of _our _house."

Heero nodded, and leaned forward again so the Shinigami could wrap his arms around him and will them both through space and time.

---

For a second, Heero was light and a hiccup of energy, and then he was himself again, falling into a body of bone and fleshy veins he'd always known. His body rematerialized, tugging him back into it, and immediately flooded his brain with alerts of motion and pain to come. Shini had brought them back too high in the air and they collapsed to the floor of the hallway—Heero on bottom, landing neatly on his face.

"Shin—" He groaned angrily. But, when he felt the god roll gingerly off him and squeak a quiet apology, the anger was gone. In its place boiled a sense of urgency and calm energy he hadn't felt since days learning military procedure from his father.

"Heero, sorry!" Shini squeaked again when his husband recovered.

"No time—get going," he said, waving him off as he snatched up the bag of supplies. He tensed on the balls of his feet, one hand steadying him as if he were ready to break for a finish line. "Draw him off."

The Shinigami nodded and popped off into nothingness again only to reappear at the top of the stairs, filling the air around him with black. Filling the water with blood and hoping the sharks would follow it.

Heero slid into the living room as quietly and quickly as he could while clutching the brown paper bag. It inevitably rustled as he moved, and he squeezed it as if he could suffocate all the offending noise from it. He resisted the urge to watch over his shoulder as he circled around the couch and into the corner with a small bookshelf.

There was someone in his home. And he was just as capable as Shini—if not more. Capable of being anywhere at any moment the whim took him with nothing more than a willing thought. Heero was also quite sure, considering the Shinigami's mother, that being a god of Love was little indication of temperament in this situation.

He was pissed.

He lurched up and knocked the books and stacked papers off the top shelf with a swipe of his free hand. A cloud of dust blew up in fury and the papers slid and fluttered. The complaints fell on deaf ears, as Heero set to work with an equal sense of furious speed. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the cleared shelf, which came up to his chest.

The windows on the opposite wall let in generous rays of light, the long rectangles of light created by the panes reaching out towards him in a slow, steady motion he didn't notice. The evergreen, vase, rope, and cheap containers of _sake,_rice, and salt rolled and scattered about on the flat surface before Heero wrangled them up, knocking a few over again in his hurry. Without pausing, he sucked in a sharp breath and let it evenly back out through his nose, calming himself even as he went, gaining control to speed through the curve.

It had to be light, quiet, and high. Heero grimaced slightly. If he wasn't being stalked by a god in his home, unaware if he were being watched at that very moment, he might have installed a shelf specially for it. But he was being stalked—hunted, even—and home improvement wasn't an option.

So, kicking the papers away from the make-shift shrine as he went, Heero ripped open the bag of rice, exposing it to the air, and fumbled to pop the lid off the sake bottle. Not concerned with beauty, he threw the salt across the top shelf and then sprung backwards, snatching up two pieces of paper from the floor and turning them to their blank sides.

He pulled the eyeliner pencil from his back pocket and scribbled 'Shinigami' in the clearest kanji he could muster at the moment. He hesitated, then added '13' beneath it just to be sure. The plan would only work if the blessing was accredited to the correct one, he knew. He snatched up another piece of paper. All that was needed was the word '_kumo_' hung on the rope, which would create a metaphysical patch of sky above the shrine, disabling anyone to 'walk over it', and have control or domination over it.

And, in a moment of victory, knowing he was just a few steps away from finishing and forever fool-proofing the house from every ghoul and goblin who thought he could poke his nose in, he allowed himself to smile and think. Imagine Shini's eager smile, his arms hanging loosely around his shoulders, kissing his neck—

It was then that the pencil tip broke and Heero felt someone appear in the space behind. Someone not made of Darkness and smelling forever of cinnamon.

"Shit—" He managed out, whipping around before the intruder interrupted him.

Cupid smirked and tilted his head, his bow already drawn and his smirk following the shaft of his arrow towards Heero. "Hello," he said. "This is just too, easy, you know."

Heero attempted to dodge the shot he knew was coming, but it landed with a sick thud just below his shoulder.

And a moment before sleep settled in on him, as thick and sweltering as blacktop on a summer's day, he thought to himself, '_He looks nothing like Shini…_'


End file.
